221B
by LoveIsAllYouNeed96
Summary: Adelaide Holmes, the world's 2nd Consulting Detective.
1. Locating Baker Street

Clutching the address tightly in my hand, I made my way down the street in search of the ellusive Baker Street. As the light drizzle become heavier, I began to increase my pace to a slow jog. The streets were quiet and unpopulated. The shops were are closed now and darkness of the night was beginning to set in. It probably would have been sensible to get the underground then walked from there. Plunging my hand into my pocket, I found that the last thought would have been impossible without the night ending with me locked up in a holding cell for sneaking on the underground train without a ticket and not having enough money to pay the fine. That would be fun. I could just imagine the look of shame on my brother's face if he had to come a collect me. That's if he would come, he could just leave me to punishment. Darker and darker the sky became until the paper became unreadable in the lights absense. Taking my phone out of my pocket, the time read '_9:34_'. I could call him, but that would ruin the surprise. Looking up at the skyline surrounding me, I could clearly tell that I was roughly in the Marylebone area. I wasn't far from Baker Street now.

"Oyy lads!" Shouted a voice from behind me. "Look what I found!"

Taking hold of my arm, the boy pulled me closer to him

I tried to fight free of his grasp, but it was just too tight. Turning, I could faintly see a man roughly around the age of 22/23 dressed in a novelty t-shirt. Him and his mates were obviously on a night out. I tried to understand what he was saying, but his voice was slightly sllured due to alcohol potent stench escaped from his mouth as he spoke.

"Let go of me!" I stated as sternly as possible.

"Why?" He grinned. "The party's only just started now!"

"No!" I murmurred before trying to back away from him.

The man grew tired of my methods of attempted escape and instead pushed me against the wall causing my head to collide with the bricks. Rendering me woozy, I gasped in pain. Blood trickled down my pale face as I breathed heavily in fear. "Please, please don't hurt me...please!" I begged tearfully.

"Let's find out a little more about you." He smiled. Grabbing my bag, he opened it and pulled out my passport. Using the light of his phone to read it, he furrowed an eyebrow before looking back at me. "You're his brother?" The man asked sternly.

"Depends which answer you would prefer. If you hate him, then no. If you love him, then yes." I spoke at an almost inaudible speed due to my current fear levels.

"He got my brother locked up for a murder he didn't commit!" The man shouted. "Life they've given him!"

"I'm sorry, but that didn't have anything to do with me." I stated truthfully.

He grinned maliciously. "No, but this is me getting even."

I furrowed an eyebrow. "What?"

Removing something from his pocket, I breifly saw one of the next street downs street lights reflect against the glistening object. Before I could react, he had thrust it into my stomach. I immediately gasped as the man grabbed hold of my arms. "Tell him from me, this isn't over!" Letting go of me, my knees gave way beneath me as I fell to the ground in a heap. I placed my hand over the wound in the hope that it may help to stop the heavy flow of blood from escaping my body. As he walked away, the man threw something beside me. I could only assume that it was my passport. I moaned as the pain worsened. My mind felt strange and bare. All thoughts escaped me. I knew no one was going to find me, not until I was dead anyway. The lack of light meant that I was unnoticable to passing pedestrians and the light on the front of cyclists bicycle would not have enough strength or range to illuminate me.

A yellow light came down the street. Trying to focus onto the object, I could vaguely make out that it was a taxi. Two men exited the cab before waving off the driver. Using all of my remaining strength, I breathed in deeply before screaming as loud as I could. "Help!" Sadly, even with half the remaining air in my body at my disposal, my voice was nowhere near loud enough. Trying one last time, I gathered all that I could collect and screamed. "Help me!"

"Did you hear something?"

"There's someone down the street, I think they screamed help." I could hear their footsteps as they ran down the street. "Hello?" One of the men called out.

I could feel my eyes closing as my body desperately wanted to sleep. It was then that the light from a torch was shone onto my face. I looked up at my saviour, it was Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes widened. "Adelaide!" He panicked.

**My eyes closed as the darkness consumed me.**


	2. Adelaide Holmes

As I felt myself becoming aware of my surroundings, my ears began to pick up on the conversations of those around me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't gather enough strength to open my heavy eyelids.

"Sherlock, you heard the doctors, she _is _going to be okay." I did not recognise the voice, neither had I heard it before. It seems that my brother has aqquainted himself since moving out.

"Doctor's can be wrong. What if one of her organs were punctured and the scan didn't pick it up." I had never heard my brother use such an emotion filled tone. He has always been a strong character, ever the more so since he become a consulting detective, his area of work requires him to be. Saying that, Mycroft isn't any better. The two of them are alike in that respect.

"Your sister is in the very capable hands of London's finest and most qualified doctors, I can assure you that they haven't missed anything. Dr Watson is right with his examination, Adelaide will be fine." A doctor I presumed.

"How long will she need to rest?" My brother asked.

"It all depends, each patient responds differently. It could be a days or even just a few hours."

I could faintly hear the sound of the door opening and closing.

"Is she alright?" Asked a second panicked, easily identifiable voice.

"I see you finally decided to show up Mycroft. How nice of you to arrive eight hours after she was admitted." Sherlock spoke in a stern tone.

"I came as soon as I heard." He stated.

"Well you're here now, and that's all that matters." Said Dr Watson as he tried to clear the tension filled atmosphere.

"Don't you think mother should know? After all, she would never have allowed Adelaide to go off on her own at that time of night. She would have either driven to Baker Street herself or payed for the taxi fare to get her there."

"I think we should wait until Adelaide's awake, maybe she could shed some light on everything." Spoke Sherlock.

There was a pause. "I know that look." Dr Watson pointed out.

"What look?" Sherlock asked.

"The I've already deducted something that I'm not willing to share face." He stated.

"Mycroft?"

"You've been here longer than I have, no doubt you will have already come to your conclusions."

"When Adelaide was attacked last night, the side of her head was bleeding. The attacker obviously slammed her against the wall with such a force that it ruptured the skin causing the flow of blood. The man then stabbed her causing the wound in her stomach, and let go of her causing her to fall to the ground."

"Where is this going?" Dr Watson asked.

"If the attacker's weapon was a knife, then how are there bruises on her body?" Sherlock stated.

"Well they could have been from when she fell to the ground." Mycroft commented.

"They're old bruises, darkened bruises. They've been there for some time."

"So you don't think she came to visit?" Mycroft asked.

"No, I think she ran away."

When I found myself able to flicker my eyes open, I was in a pale yellow room with an oxygen tube in my nose and a monitoring machine beeping beside the bed. Sherlock was sat next to a man I presumed to be Dr Watson while Mycroft was sat against the wall by the door. Upon noticing me awaken, Sherlock walked over and stood by the bed.

"How are you feeling?" He asked softly.

"Seeing as I was stabbed last night, pretty good." I smiled.

"I'm glad you're okay." He smiled back.

"I couldn't believe it was you! It must have been fate." I giggled.

"I'm glad I found you too. I never would have been able to forgive myself otherwise."

Mycroft also walked over. His expression showed that he was more concerned about other matters. "Adelaide, what brings you here?"

"It's a long story." I stated.

"We can talk about this later." Sherlock smiled. "For now, you can stay at Baker Street."

"Baker Street?!" Mycroft exclaimed. "That tiny upper floor apartment. The place scarcily accomodates the two of you, nevermind Adelaide. Where would she sleep?" He questioned.

"In my room, I shall sleep on the couch." Sherlock stated.

"I'm quite happy sleeping on the couch you know." I commented.

"Adelaide should stay with me, at least there are more than five rooms."

"There are six rooms actually!" He stated. "There are_ two_ en-suites!"

"Will you two stop fighting." I smirked. "I'm fine staying with Sherlock and Dr Watson at Baker Street." I smiled. "Anyway, you would probably have to going to that strange Diogenes Club." I laughed.

"That's settled then, Adelaide with stay at Baker Street with John and I." Sherlock smiled with a cheerful grin. I knew he was trying to rub it in to Mycroft.

"Stop it!" I smirked before tapping him lightly on the arm.

Entering Baker Street, Dr Watson showed me upstairs to the flat while Sherlock knocked on the door down the corridor. I presumed that was where their landlady lived.

"Sorry about the mess." Dr Watson apologised. "You will know better than anyone what it's like to live with Sherlock and his tendencies to leave things lying everywhere and cause destruction when he's bored."

I looked around at the room. The walls were plastered in a white and black floral wallpaper. On the far wall, a smiley face had been sprayed upon it in yellow paint. There was also a scattering of bullet holes that undoubtedly Sherlock would have placed there. The rest of the room was cluttered with furniture that was at least 30/40 years old. I scowled at his choice of standing lamp. The fanning white plastic just looked awful. The bookshelves pushed against the wall were full to bursting with books and field guides of all colours and sizes. While some were neatly in place or stacked up, others lay baron on the floor and at other various locations around the room. Trinkets of all varieties had no desired place. I could tell this from the lack of pattern in there positioning. A bundle of letters bound together with thick red elastic bands and addressed to Sherlock were stranded on the metal framed black leather seat. I presumed they were from the public asking for Sherlock's help. The rest of the letters were on the mantel piece kept in place with a jack knife that had been thrust into the wood. There envelopes disregarded and scrumpled into balls. The metal waste bin was overflowing due to the sheer number of them. Sherlock's lousy shot meant that some of the paper balls rested in the area around the waste bin from the occasions where he had missed. Turning my gaze to the fire itself, I noticed something hidden beneath the metal grill plate. Kneeling down, I moved the dark black plate to reveal a persian slipper with a pack of cigarettes stuffed into the toe. I turned to Dr Watson. "I see he still smokes."

"How did you find that?" He furrowed an eyebrow. "I've never even noticed that before."

I handed the packet to him. "Please hide this before Sherlock comes up." I smiled.

Dr Watson nodded before walking off, presumably into his room to store them somewhere.

"I like it here, it's cosy." I giggled.

"So Adelaide, do you do the whole Holmes thing were you can identify every aspect of someone's life just from one look?" He asked re-entering the room.

"I can." I smiled.

"Come on then, what can you deduct about me?" Dr Watson asked.

I carefully looked at him. It took me only a few seconds to reach my conclusions. "Your name is John Watson, obviously and you served in either Iraq or Afghanistan a few years ago. Going of the mug in the kitchen, you served in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. You served on the front line but not as a soldier. A doctor seems more likely due to your examination of me earlier. There is a crutch lying on the floor under a pile of books and general rubbish. Sherlock would refuse to use one even if he had to so it must be yours. You obviously don't need it anymore so you've just abandoned it in the corner. The fact that it's here means that you did previously rely on it which would lead me to presume that whatever it was must have been psychosomatic, probably a limp. But why would you have a psychosomatic limp in the first place?" I paused. "When you were a doctor in the conflict, you must have been injured...no no wait, shot. Being shot would have weakened your self confidence allowing your mind to rule your body. The more you remembered about your injury, the more you relied on your crutch. When you arrived in London, my brother wouldn't have approached you about the flat himself, no, someone must have told you. If Sherlock had of approached you and been himself, you would have run a mile...if you pardon the expression. When you met, he probably showed off his abilities, I'm guessing he told you about your sister."

John's eyes widened.

"Oh come on, it's obvious by the phone. The scratch marks! They lead one to presume that it was owned by a heavy drinker, the engraving which states that it must have been a present to her, and the fact that you have it because this is a good phone. You wouldn't give away a phone like this unless you really hates the person who you recieved it from. So the phone was a present to your sister off a partner who she must have rowed with and broke up from. Maybe it was because of her drinking habits, or she became an alcoholic after the seperation out of sadness. Due to her daily consumption levels, plugging the phone into charge became difficult meaning it took her multiple attempts to connect the wire into the phone, therefore, the phone became scratched. Angry, she then gave it to you." I smiled. "Anyway, going back to you, you seem happy living here although you wish he would stop storring specimens in the fridge."

"How do you know about that?" He asked with a shocked expression.

"I lived with him, remember?" I smirked.

"Well that was just..." John tried to think of a word. "Amazing!"

"Thank you." I smiled. "Where has my brother got to?"

"He's downstairs with Miss Hudson. I have no idea why." He stated.

"Oh well." Slumping into the leather chair, I dropped the bundle of letters on the floor before picking up one of the field guides from the table. 'Indentifying Plant Life'. "Maybe not." I laughed before placing the book back.

Sherlock walked into the room. "Mrs Hudson is fine with you staying here." He smiled.

I smiled back. "Yey, I've missed you so much since you left to go to university."

"That reminds me, we need to talk about the bruising on your body." Sherlock spoke in a softer tone.

"What's there to say?" I asked. "My two elder brothers achieved the highest grades in their year groups at school before going on to graduate at Cambridge University. You have become a hero of London through your consulting detective work, and Mycroft is practically the British government...I'm just the dissapointment of the family."

"What do you mean?" He asked.

"Mother and father sent me off to boarding school once you left home. There I didn't fit in with the other girls. They all referred to me as Homeless Holmes because mother and father never showed up to see me at event evenings and open days. At the end of the year, when all of the other girls were returning home to their families, I was left there to spend the Summer alone at the boarding school. They didn't even ring me to explain why." I paused. "When the new year started, everything began again. The name calling and the excluding, the comments and the rumours...I hated it! I hated it so much but they just didn't care! In their eyes, they were being good parents by paying for me to attend." I paused. "In the end, I just couldn't take it anymore...all of my anger that had been amounting over the years just became too much. I attacked the head girl and stupidly got caught. Her parents were ready to sue me but the headmistress persuaded them to drop the charges. She kicked me out and mother and father sent a driver to pick me up. When I got home, they weren't too impressed. They kept going on and on about it saying that I needed to grow up and stop being so childish. I also got the lecture about how I had ruined my life and that I was a disgrace to the family! I tried to re-enroll, but they wouldn't take me back. In Miss Hedvill's own words, "You're lucky I'm not calling the police right now!" I felt so angry just talking about it. "Abbey Bank made sure that I would never be accepted into another learning establishment due to what they wrote on my report. No qualifications obviously meant no employment so father became even more annoyed when I told him about the local college I applied to rejecting my application. I first thought that he was mad at the college, but he wasn't! He was angry at me! I tried to calm him down but he slapped my hard acros the face. The strength of his swing sent me flying backwards and I crashed through the side table before hitting the floor. After that, I didn't want to even look at him. I ran upstairs and packed up my stuff before storming out of the house, slamming the door behind me. I was hoping to find you, and I did...sort of."

"I would never have imagined that father would be capable of something like that, not towards you anyway..." Sherlock commented.

"Neither did I." I stated.

"But that's child abuse." John commented.

"Not in his eyes." I sighed. "Anyway, it doesn't matter now." I smiled.

"What did mother have to say about all this?" Sherlock asked.

"She didn't utter a single word. The woman just stood there and watched as he lashed out at me. Mother was never like that. I remember her as the woman from our childhood. The mother that loved us more than anything. The kind, caring woman that would gladly lay down her life to save us if the situation ever occured. Now, she's cold and mute. The only time she spoke that day was to call me a dissapointment."

Sherlock smiled softly before gently embracing me in a hug. "I won't let anyone hurt you, I promise." He whispered in my ear.

"I love you." I said resting my head against his shoulder.

"I love you too Adelaide."


	3. The Reichenbach Fall

** -Third Person POV-**

The rain poured down outside the window as Adelaide in one of the armchairs with a face that showed only pain. Bags under her already dark red eyes from lack of sleep and crying.

"We can continue to just sit here in silence, or we can talk about what has happened. I'm here to listen, not to judge." The therapist stated to her.

"You already know why I'm here." Adelaide responded. "I'm here because..." Her voice broke. Looking down, Adelaide swallowed hard, trying not to break down in tears.

The therapist leant forward sympathetically.

"What happened, Adelaide?"

Adelaide closed her eyes, trying to get control of herself, then looked up at the therapist once again, her eyes full of loss. Clearing her throat, she breathed heavily. "Sher..." Her voice broke once again as she spoke. Unable to continue, Adelaide cleared her throat once again, swallowing hard.

"You need to get it out." Spoke the therapist gently.

"My brother...Sherlock Holmes." Her voice full of pain and tears. She sniffed, forcing her voice through the anguish. "Is dead..." Adelaide broke down, and began to cry.

* * *

_~Three Months Earlier~_

_'_**Hero of the Reichenbach**_'_

_'Turner masterpiece recovered by 'amateur'. Scotland Yard embarrased by overlooked clues.'_

_'_A Turner masterpiece worth £1.7million that was stolen from an auction house ten days ago has been recovered by an amateur detective from North London. Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street has been investigating the art crime simply as a hobby, and yet he was able to follow the trail that lead him to the famous work – a trail that Scotland Yard missed completely.'

In an art gallery, the director of the gallery is finishing his speech as he stands near a painting.

"Falls of the Reichenbach, Turner's masterpiece, thankfully recovered owing to the prodigious talent of Mr. Sherlock Holmes." The patrons began to appluad as Sherlock, John and Adelaide are standing nearby. The director hands Sherlock a small gift wrapped box. "A small token of our gratitude."

Sherlock took the box and focused on it.

"Diamond cufflinks. All my cuffs have buttons."

"He means thank you." John smiled at the director.

"Do I?" He replied.

Adelaide nudged him.

"Thank you." He spoke insincerely to the director.

* * *

'**Top Banker Kidnapped**'

'Sherlock Holmes was last night being hailed a hero yet again for masterminding the daring escape of the kidnapped man. Scotland Yard had to secretly bring in their special weapon (in the form of Mr Holmes) yet again. The case has drawn a huge amount of attention as the nation became divided about the outcome of the kidnapping. Bankers are certainly not the nations sweethearts any more, but Mr. Holmes certainly seems to be.'

Outside the banker's house, the rescued man is standing with his arms around his wife and young son as the press film and photograph them. Sherlock, John and Adelaide are stood uncomfortably nearby.

"Back together with my family after my terrifying ordeal; and we have one person to thank for my deliverance – Sherlock Holmes." The missing banker smiled.

As the public began to applaud, the banker's son smiles and hands a small gift-wrapped box to Sherlock. He takes it and rattles it briefly.

"Tie pin. I don't wear ties." He whispered to John.

"Shh." Adelaide hushed.

* * *

The screen behind Lestraude reads 'Ricoletti Evades Capture' alongside a large photo of him.

"Peter Ricoletti: number one on Interpol's Most Wanted list since nineteen eighty-two. But we got him; and there's one person we have to thank for giving us the decisive leads, with all his customary diplomacy and tact!" Lestraude smirks.

Sherlock smiles insincerely towards him.

"Sarcasm." He stated.

"Yes." Sherlock nodded.

As the crowd appluaded, Lestraude walked over to Sherlock and handed him a gift wrapped package with a cheerful smile. "We all chipped in."

Tearing open the wrapping paper, Sally and Anderson grinned expectantly at the back of the room. Sherlock pulled out a deerstalker hat. "Oh!" Spoke Sherlock with a fake, almost smile.

Adelaide smirked discreetely.

"Put the hat on!" Shouted a reporter.

"Put the hat on!" Shouted another.

"Yeah, Sherlock, put the hat on." Adelaide smiled with a smug grin knowing that this would annoy her brother.

Looking at the reporters with an unamused glare, Sherlock simply looked at the hat.

John uncomfortably cleared his throat. "Just get it over with."

Glowering at him, Sherlock shoves the wrapping paper into his hands, then unhappily puts the hat on his head. The flashes of the press' cameras go mad as everyone applauds. At the back of the room, Sally claps with sarcastic delight as Anderson grins smugly. Sherlock smiles at the press through gritted teeth and glances at Lestraude as if promising him a world of pain later.

* * *

'**Boffin Sherlock Solves Another**'

'_Hero 'Tec Cracks 'Unsolvable' Case_'

* * *

**-Adelaide's POV-**

Sat on the couch of 221B, I was attempting to read the newspaper. My brother was pacing back and forth across the room in anger while John was sitting in the armchair. Wearing his blue dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, I knew exactly what was bothering him.

"Boffin! Boffin Sherlock Holmes!" Spoke Sherlock indignantly.

"Everybody gets one." I stated.

"One what?" He furrowed an eyebrow.

"Tabloid nickname: 'SuBo'; 'Nasty Nick'. Shouldn't worry – I'll probably get one soon." I smiled.

"Page five, column six, first paragraph."

I quickly turned to the relevant page. "Sherlock's younger sister is now regularly sighted solving cases with her older brother and his bachelor John Watson. Blondie is seventeen years old and previously attended Abbey Bank School for Girls where she was expelled for fighting. It seems Adelaide packs a temper."

"Blondie?" I moaned. "Why Blondie?"

"Because you're blonde." Stated John.

Sherlock walked over to the fireplace and picked up the deerstalker before punching it angrily. "Why is it always the hat photograph?"

I clapped mockingly. "Thanks for that John." I smiled sarcastically. "That question was mostly rhetorical."

"What sort of hat is it anyway?" Mumbled Sherlock.

John furrowed an eyebrow. "Hang on, did you sat bachelor John Watson?"

I nodded and handed him the newspaper.

"Bachelor? What the hell are they implying?"

Sherlock held up the hat and twisted it back and forth rapidly. "Is it a cap? Why has it got two fronts?"

John glanced at him breifly. "It's a deerstalker." He looked back at the newspaper. "Frequently seen in the company of bachelor John Watson ..."

"You stalk a deer with a hat? What are you gonna do – throw it?" Sherlock queried.

John eyes widened. "... confirmed bachelor John Watson!"

"Some sort of death frisbee?" Sherlock furrowed an eyebrow as he looked at it.

"Okay, this is too much. We need to be more careful." John stated.

"It's got flaps ... ear flaps. It's an ear hat, John." Sherlock skimmed the hat across the room to me. "What do you mean more careful?" He asked.

"What he means is that this isn't a deerstalker now; it's a Sherlock Holmes hat." I stated.

John nodded. "You're not exactly a private detective any more Sherlock. You're this far from famous." He held out his thumb and forefinger to indicate how much.

"Oh, it'll pass." Sherlock stated slumping down into the armchair.

"It'd better pass. The press will turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they'll turn on you." John warned.

"It really bothers you." Spoke Sherlock.

"What?" John furrowed an eyebrow.

"What people say." He stated.

"Yes." John admitted.

"About me? I don't understand – why would it upset you?" Sherlock asked.

John held his gaze for a moment before looking away. "Just try to keep a low profile. Find yourself a little case this week. Stay out of the news."

"There must be some minor crimes happening in London right now." I smiled before picking up the remote from the coffee table and turning on the tv. The news flashed on the screen.

"And to report, there has been three break in's this morning at three of London's most notable locations."

I furrowed an eyebrow. The pictures on the screen were of the Tower of London, the Bank of England and Pentonville Prison. "Oh my god!" I exclaimed quietly.

Sherlock's phone vibrated.

I looked at the phone then Sherlock. When he made no effort to acknowledge the text, I picked up the phone and opened the message.

'_Come and play._

_Tower Hill._

_Jim Moriarty x._'

My eyes widened. "Sherlock!"

"Shh." He hushed.

"He's back." I stated.

Sherlock's eyes turned to me. Taking the phone, he too read the message. His eyes widened and he sank back against the back of the couch.

* * *

As the taxi pulled up outside the Tower of London, Lestraude was standing waiting for us. He quickly hurried us into the gaurd building where he began to play back the recorded security footage. Moriarty takes a piece of chewing gum from out of his mouth and sticks it onto the glass. I could faintly make out what he then pushed into the gum.

"That glass is tougher than anything." Lestraude stated.

"Not tougher than crystallised carbon. He used a diamond." I stated.

Lestraude typed a command into the computer which made the footage change. Our view of the case was now from a different angle at the other side of the glass. The footage begins to rewing showing the glass rising back up into place before it shattered. As Moriarty pulled the fire extinguisher back again and the glass becomes whole, the message which he had scrawled onto it became clear. He must have deliberately wrote the words backwards on the glass so that it would be visably seen from the camera on the other side of the case. He wanted us to see it. With a smiley face drawn inside the "O", the message read:

'GET SHERLOCK'

I gasped and turned to John and Sherlock. John too was looking shocked, while Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the camera footage.

* * *

'**Crime of the Century?**'

'Questions are being asked in parliament as to how the Tower of London, Pentonville Prison and the Bank of England were all broken into at the same time by the same man – James Moriarty. There are unconfirmed reports that Scotland Yard's favourite sleuth Mr Sherlock Holmes has been called in to help the team piece together the most audacious crime...Turn to page 5.'

* * *

'**Jewel Thief On Trial At Bailey**'

"Crown Jewel thief is to be tried at the Old Bailey and Sherlock Holmes is named as a witness for the prosecution. Master criminal Moriarty taunted Holmes with his graffitied GET SHERLOCK at the scene of the crime. The crime is attracting huge attention internationally too. Irish born Moriarty – of no fixed abode, seems to be taunting the master detective. Boffin Holmes, accompanied by confirmed bachelor John Watson and his younger sister Adelaide Holmes – refused to comment. Crowds gathered yesterday for what is being described as the trial of the century."

* * *

'**Amateur Detective To Be Called As Expert Witness**'

'_Scotland Yard Calls Upon Nation's Favourite Detective In Moriarty Trial_'

'In a twist worthy of a Conan Doyle novella, Mr Sherlock Holmes was yesterday revealed to be an expert witness at the trial of 'Jim' Moriarty. Described by many commentators as the trial of the century, the case has all the ingredients of a block buster film. The royal family, Scotland yard, the world of finance and greed, the 'underclass' of prisoners out to reek revenge as they enjoy their own fifteen minutes of freedom. The case is riddled with irony and intrigue but perhaps reflects a deeper malaise that seems to be at the heart of a society. Mr Holmes, a man of few words, declined to comment when asked his involvement in the case.'

* * *

The next morning, John was standing in front of the mirror in the living room as he was busy tying his tie. Picking up his suit jacket from the couch, he put it on over his white shirt. Sherlock buttoned up his own jacket before smiling at me. We then made our way downstairs and stood in front of the door.

John reached out and took hold of the bolt of the door.

He turned to Sherlock and I. "Ready?"

I nodded. "Yes."

Bracing himself, John opens the door. It was utter chaos outside. Police officers were trying to hold back the large crowd of journalists who immediately began photographing us and calling out questions. The police cleared the way for us through to the waiting police car. As soon as we got into the back of the car, it pulled away with its sirens wailing.

* * *

Stood washing my hands in the bathrooms of the bailey, I turned off the tap before drying them with one of the paper towels.

"Crown versus Moriarty – please proceed to Court Ten." Announced the tannoy.

Turning, a woman stood behind me wearing a deerstalker hat. She stated me in awestruck amazement .

"You're Adelaide."

I furrowed an eyebrow as I noticed her 'I (Heart) Holmes' badge.

"I'm a big fan of you and your brother." She stated.

"Evidently." I faked a smile.

"I read your cases; follow them all." The woman stepped closer to me and gazed adoringly while offering a pen. "Sign my shirt, would you?"

"There are two types of fans." I explained. "Catch me before I kill again – Type A."

"Uh-huh. What's Type B?" She smiled.

"The readers of John's blog."

"Guess which one I am." The woman asked.

I quickly looked at her and made a speedy deduction.

'_pressure marks_'

'_pocket_'

'_ink_'

"Neither." I answered instantly.

The woman blinked nervously. "Really?"

"No. You're not a fan at all." I smirked.

I looked at the indentations just below her right wrist. "Those marks on your forearm: edge of a desk. You've been typing in a hurry, probably. Pressure on; facing a deadline."

"That all?" She asked.

"And there's a smudge of ink on your wrist; and a bulge in your left jacket pocket." I reffered to her pocket from which a protruding edge of a dictaphone was visable. The red light in the corner was shining meaning that it was recording.

"Bit of a giveaway." The woman smiled.

"The smudge is deliberate, to see if I'm as good as my brother." I stated before lifting her wrist and discreetely sniffing the ink upon it. "Hmm. Oil-based; used in newspaper print, but drawn on with an index finger; your finger."

"Hmm!"

"Journalist. Unlikely you'd get your hands dirty at the press. You put that there to test me." I furrowed an eyebrow.

"Wow, I'm liking you!" She grinned.

"You mean I'd make a great feature: "Adelaide Holmes – the girl in her brother's shadow".

The woman took off her hat. "Kitty Riley." She held out her hand in which to shake mine.

"No. I'm just saving you the trouble of asking. No, I won't give you an interview; no, I don't want the money." I stated before attempting to leave.

"Your brother and John Watson – just platonic?" Kitty asked. "There's all sorts of gossip in the press about you and your brother. Sooner or later you're gonna need someone on your side..." She stated before reaching into her jacket pocket and producing a business card with her name and contact details on it. KItty tucked it into my coat pocket. "...someone to set the record straight."

"And you think you're the girl for that job, do you?" I smiled sarcastically.

"I'm smart, and you can trust me, totally." She explained.

"Smart, okay: investigative journalist. Good. Well, look at me and tell me what you see." I stated.

Kitty stared at me blankly.

"If you're that skilful, you don't need an interview. You can just read what you need."

She looked awkwardly at me. I knew she couldn't tell anything.

"No? Okay, my turn." I began circling her. "I look at you and I see someone who's still waiting for their first big scoop so that their editor will notice them. You're wearing an expensive skirt but it's been re-hemmed twice; only posh skirt you've got. And your nails: you can't afford to do them that often. I see someone who's hungry. I don't see smart, and I definitely don't see trustworthy, but I'll give you a quote if you like – three little words." I reached into her jacket pocket and took out the dictaphone. Holding it up to my mouth, Kitty stepped closer hopefully. "You ... repel ... me." Shoving the dictaphone into her hand, I turned and left the bathroom.

* * *

John and I were sitting in the public gallery upstairs looking down at the courtroom. Sherlock was standing in the witness box ready to give evidence against Moriarty. The prosecuting barrister walked up to her stand and nodded to the judge before turning to Sherlock.

"A consulting criminal, your words. Can you expand on that answer?" She asked.

"James Moriarty is for hire." Sherlock stated.

"A tradesman?"

He nodded.

"But not the sort who'd fix your heating."

"No, the sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler." Muffled laughter could be heard.

"Would you describe him as..." She began.

"Leading." Sherlock interrupted.

"What?" She furrowed an eyebrow.

"Can't do that. You're leading the witness. He'll object and the judge will uphold." Sherlock stated.

The judge turned to Sherlock with an exasperated look. "Mr. Holmes."

I sighed and covered my eyes with my fingers in embarressment.

"Ask me how. How would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?" Sherlock taught the barrister.

"_How_ would you describe this man – his character?" She asked.

"First mistake." Sherlock raised his eyes and locked his gaze onto Moriarty. "James Moriarty isn't a man at all – he's a spider; a spider at the centre of a web – a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances."

"And how long..." Began the barrister once again not making it to the end of her question without Sherlock interrupting.

"No, no, don't-don't do that. That's really not a good question." Sherlock said in an exasperated tone.

"Mr. Holmes." Spoke the judge angrily.

"How long have I known him? Not really your best line of enquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun; he tried to blow me up. " Said Sherlock sarcastically. "I felt we had a special something."

"Miss Sorrel, are you seriously claiming this man is an expert, after knowing the accused for just five minutes?" Asked the judge.

"Two minutes would have made me an expert. Five was ample."

"Mr. Holmes, that's a matter for the jury." The judge stated.

"Oh really?" Spoke Sherlock in a soft, quiet tone.

"Oh no!" I cringed in embarresment knowing what he was about to do.

Sherlock turned to the jury box. "One librarian; two teachers; two high-pressured jobs, probably the City. The foreman's a medical secretary, trained abroad judging by her shorthand. Seven are married and two are having an affair – with each other, it would seem! Oh, and they've just had tea and biscuits. Would you like to know who ate the wafer?" He asked sarcastically.

"Mr. Holmes. You've been called here to answer Miss Sorrel's questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess." Bellowed the judge.

Sherlock took a breath but a slight smile escaped his lips at the acknowledgement of his 'intellectual prowess'. He caught sight of us in the gallery. John and I stared at him sternly.

"Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt. Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes without showing off?" The Judge shouted.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak.

"Unbelievable." I stated.

* * *

Sherlock was busy signing the form to collect his possessions while John was standing beside him leaning back on the desk with his arms folded.

"I told you to not get clever." John lectured.

"I can't just turn it on and off like a tap." Sherlock replied before taking his bag of items from the custody officer. He turned to John and I. "Well?"

"Well what?" John furrowed an eyebrow.

"You were there for the whole thing, up in the gallery, start to finish."

"Like you said it would be, he sat on his backside, never even stirred." I filled him in.

"Moriarty's not mounting any defence." Sherlock muttered.

* * *

Back at 221B, John looked amazed by the events of the past week. "Bank of England, Tower of London, Pentonville. Three of the most secure places in the country and six weeks ago Moriarty breaks in, no-one knows how or why." He sat down in the armchair.

Sherlock began to pace.

"All we know is ..." I began.

"...he ended up in custody." Sherlock finished before stopping and turning to John.

"Don't do that." Stated John.

"Do what?" Asked Sherlock.

"The look."

"Look?" Sherlock furrowed an eyebrow.

"Yes the "we both know what's really going on here" face." John explained.

"Well, we do." Sherlock looked bewildered.

"No. I don't, which is why I find The Face so annoying."

I smirked.

"If Moriarty wanted the jewels, he'd have them. If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in a prison cell right now is because he _chose_ to be there." Sherlock explained before beginning to pace once again. "Somehow this is part of his scheme."

* * *

**-Third Person POV-** _~The Next Day~_

"Mr. Crayhill, can we have your first witness?" Asked the judge.

The defending barrister rose to his feet. "Your Honour, we're not calling any witnesses."

The courtroom came alive with the suprised cries of those witnessing the most curious of events. Adelaide, who was sitting in the public gallery, frowned in confusion.

"I don't follow. You've entered a plea of not guilty." Stated the judge.

"Nevertheless, my client is offering no evidence. The defence rests." The barrister sat back down.

* * *

Sherlock, who had chose to stay back at the flat, sat up sideways on the couch with his back against the arm nearest the window. Wearing his blue dressing gown over his clothes, he began to softly recite the only words that the judge can possibly say in his summing-up speech. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. James Moriarty stands accused of several counts of attempted burglary, crimes which – if he's found guilty – will elicit a very long custodial sentence; and yet his legal team has chosen to offer no evidence whatsoever to support their plea. I find myself in the unusual position of recommending a verdict wholeheartedly. You must find him guilty." Closing his eyes, he began to whisper. "Guilty."

* * *

"You must find him guilty." Stated the judge.

* * *

A few minutes later, the Clerk rose to his feet in the courtroom and turned to face the jury.

"Have you reached a verdict on which you all agree?" He asked.

* * *

**-Adelaide's POV-**

I took out my phone and rang Sherlock. "Not guilty. They found him not guilty. No defence, and Moriarty's walked free." I explained. "Sherlock? Sherlock, are you even listening? He's out. You-you know he'll be coming after you. Sher..." The line went dead.

* * *

**-Third Person POV-**

Sherlock switched the phone off before getting up off the sofa. Walking into the kitchen he flicked the switch on the kettle and slams a small tray down beside it, putting a jug of milk, a sugar bowl, a teapot and two cups and saucers with teaspoons onto the tray. As the kettle comes to the boil, Sherlock switched it off, now wearing a jacket in place of the blue dressing gown he was previously wearing. Making the tea, he took the tray to the table beside the armchair before walking over to the metal framed leather chair and picking up his violin. Beginning to play Bach's Sonata No. 1 in G minor, the front door is expertly lockpicked and pushed open. Moriarty's easily-recognisable shadow preceded him as he slowly walked along the hall and up the stairs. Part way up, one of the stairs creaked noisily causing him to pause for a moment, as does Sherlock. A couple of seconds later, Sherlock resumed from a few notes before where he stopped and Moriarty one again began to ascend the stairs. Sherlock, standing with his back to the living room door, kept playing until Moriarty pushed open the door. He stops playing, but doesn't turn around.

"Most people knock." Sherlock shrugs. "But then you're not most people, I suppose." He gestured over his shoulder with his bow towards the table. "Kettle's just boiled."

Moriarty walked further into the room before bending to pick up an apple from the bowl on the coffee table. "Johann Sebastian would be appalled." Tossing the apple into the air, he caught it one-handed before looking around the living room.

"May I?" He asked.

Sherlock turned to face him. "Please." He gestured with the end of his bow towards the armchair. Moriarty immediately walked over to the metal framed chair and sat down in that one instead. Taking out a small penknife, Moriarty began making cuts in the apple as Sherlock placed down his violin and took hold of the teapot. Pouring the contents into the cups, he pushed one of them towards Moriarty.

"You know when he was on his death bed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end..." Moriarty began.

"...and the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it."

"Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody." He smirked.

"Neither can you. That's why you've come." Sherlock stated.

"But be honest: you're just a tiny bit pleased." Moriarty smiled.

"What, with the verdict?" He picked up one of the teacups before adding a splash of milk.

Moriarty leant forward, and took the other cup. "With me back on the streets." He gazed up into Sherlock's eyes, smiling. "Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain." He grinned. "You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I – except you're boring." He shook his head in disappointment. "You're on the side of the angels." He sipped his tea.

Sherlock began to stir his cup. "Got to the jury, of course."

"I got into the Tower of London; you think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?" He stated.

"Cable network."

"Every hotel bedroom has a personalised TV screen, and every person has their pressure point; someone that they want to protect from harm." Moriarty drank from the cup once again. "Easy-peasy."

"So how're you going to do it..." Sherlock asked before blowing gently on the tea. "Burn me?"

"Oh, that's the problem – the final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet?" He asked softly. "What's the final problem?" He smiled. "I did tell you, but did you listen?" Moriarty took another sip from the cup before putting it down on the saucer. Putting his hand on his knee, he began to idly drum his fingers.

Sherlock's eyes lowered to watch the movement.

"How hard do you find it, having to say I don't know?" Moriarty asked.

Sherlock put his cup into its saucer before shrugging.

"I dunno." Answered Sherlock nonchalantly.

"Oh, that's clever; that's very clever; awfully clever." He began to chuckle in an upper class tone.

Sherlock smiled humourlessly while putting his cup back onto the tray.

"Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?" Asked Moriarty.

"Told them what?"

"Why I broke into all those places and never took anything." He stated.

"No."

"But you understand." Moriarty smiled.

"Obviously."

"Off you go, then." Carving off a piece of his apple, Moriarty put it into his mouth with the flat side of his penknife.

"You want me to tell you what you already know?" Asked Sherlock.

"No; I want you to prove that you know it."

"You didn't take anything because you don't need to." Stated Sherlock.

"Good." Answered Moriarty in a soft tone.

"You'll never need to take anything ever again." He continued to explain.

"Very good. Because?"

"Because nothing...nothing in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three."

"I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now – they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy – I own secrecy. Nuclear codes – I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king; and honey, you should see me in a crown." Moriarty grinned in delight at Sherlock.

"You were advertising all the way through the trial. You were showing the world what you can do." Sherlock stated.

"And you were helping. Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities...terrorist cells. They all want me." He lifted another piece of the apple to his mouth with the penknife. "Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex."

"If you could break any bank, what do you care about the highest bidder?" Asked Sherlock.

"I don't. I just like to watch them all competing. Daddy loves me the best! Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know: you've got John and your sister. I should get myself a live-in one."

"Why are you doing all of this?" Spoke Sherlock in a stern tone.

"It'd be so funny." He replied.

"You don't want money or power – not really."

Moriarty dug the point of his penknife into the apple.

"What is it all for?" Sherlock asked.

Moriarty sat forward and began speaking in a soft tone. "I want to solve the problem – our problem; the final problem." He lowered his head. "It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the blood." He raised his hand to depict a gun before making a loud gunshot noise. "But don't be scared. Bleeding's just like falling asleep except there's alot more pain involved.

"Never liked riddles." Stated Sherlock.

Moriarty stood up from the chair and straightened his jacket before locking his gaze onto Sherlock's eyes. "Learn to. Because I owe you a drop, Sherlock. I ... owe ... you." He continued to gaze at Sherlock for a few seconds, sealing his promise before slowly turning and walking away.

Sherlock didn't move as Moriarty left the room. After hearing the door slam closed, he quickly rushed out of his seat and over to the apple that Moriarty had left on the arm of the chair with his penknife still stuck in it. Sherlock picked it up by the knife handle. Moriarty had dug a large circular piece out of the apple. To the left of the circle, the letter I had been carved, while on the right, there was a U, forming the letters I O U. Sherlock's mouth twitched into the beginning of a smile.

* * *

'**Moriarty Walks Free**'

'_Shock Verdict At Old Bailey Trial_'

'The Judge could only look on dumbfounded as the Jury found 'Jimbo' Moriarty not guilty. Gasps were heard around the courtroom as the Jury declared their verdict.

* * *

'**Shock Verdict At Trial**'

'In an unbelievable turn of events Moriarty walked free today after putting up no defence at all for what has been described as the Trial of the Century. Star witness Sherlock Holmes was not present for the verdict as in another twist to the case was thrown out of court by the Judge. Questions have been asked in Parliament and the Prime Minister was quoted as saying "This is a disgrace, a sign if ever we needed one that broken Britain is still broken..."'

* * *

'**Moriarty Vanishes**'

'_What Next For Yhe Reichenbach Hero?_'

* * *

_~Two Months Later~_

John walked up to the cash point before inserting his card. After a few seconds a message came onto the screen:

'_There is a problem with your card. Please wait._'

John grimaced.

'_Thank you for your patience...John._'

John frowned. Behind him, a black car pulled up to the kerb and stopped. John turned and looked at it before turning back to the ATM. The door was opened by a young woman. John sighed in exasperation.

* * *

The car pulled up outisde an elegant white painted building. Getting out, John noticed a large brass plaque outside the door which read 'The Diogenes Club'. Entering inside, he found himself in a room where the walls were covered in heavy wooden panelling and ornate white plaster coving. A large marble fireplace surrounded an unlit fire while there were five small round tables, each with a single armchair beside it positioned at random posistions around the room. Four of them were currently occupied by smartly dressed elderly gentlemen reading newspapers and taking no notice of each other or of John. Walking over to one of the older men sitting at the far end of the room, John smiled. "Er, excuse me. Um, I'm looking for Mycroft Holmes."

The old man's expression turned sour.

"Would you happen to know if he's around at all?" John furrowed an eyebrow. "Can you not hear me?" He turned away from the man. "Anyone?"

A man at the far end of the room lifted his walking stick and pushed it repeatedly onto a button on the wall next to him. A distant bell began ring. John looked around in confusion as the gentlemen either ignored him or looked at him in annoyance. Two men wearing dress coats, white gloves and soft white overshoes walked into the room. They briskly made their way over to John before seizing his arms firmly.

"What the? Hey!" Squirmed John.

As they almost lifted him off his feet, one of the men placed his other hand over John's mouth to silence him. His muffled protests continued as they rapidly bundled him out of the room.

* * *

Chucked into a smaller room, John dusted himself off before looking around. Mycroft was standing by the coffee table in the center of the room pouring himself a drink from the crystal decanter.

"Tradition, John. Our traditions define us."

"So total silence is traditional, is it? You can't even say, pass the sugar." John mocked.

"Three-quarters of the diplomatic service and half the government front bench all sharing one tea trolley. It's for the best, believe me." Mycroft stated with a smile before his expression became more grim as he walked towards a pair of armchairs opposite the coffee table. "They don't want a repeat of nineteen seventy-two. But we can talk in here."

John walked over to the coffee table and picked up the copy of The Sun newspaper. He then brandished it at Mycroft. "You read this stuff?" He asked.

"Caught my eye."

John sat down in one of the armchairs. "Mmm-hmm."

"Saturday: they're doing a big exposé."

John began to read the announcement at the top of the front page.

'**Sherlock: The Shocking Truth**'

'_Close Friend Richard Brook Tells All: An Exclusive From Kitty Riley_'

'Super-sleuth Sherlock Holmes has today been exposed as a fraud in a revelation that will shock his new found base of adoring fans. Out-of-work actor Richard Brook revealed exclusively to The Sun that he was hired by Holmes in an elaborate deception to fool the British public into believing Holmes had above-average detective skills. Brook, who has known Holmes for decades and until recently considered him to be a close friend, said he was at first desperate for the money...' John stopped reading.

"I'd love to know where she got her information." Mycroft stated.

"Someone called Brook. Recognise the name?" Asked John placing the paper back onto the table. "School friend, maybe?"

Mycroft laughed in a snide way. "Of Sherlock's?" He chuckled once again. "But that's not why I asked you here." Picking up several folders, he handed one of them to John.

John opened the file and looked at the picture at the top of the page. "Who's that?"

"Don't know him?" Questioned Mycroft.

"No." Answered John.

"He's taken a flat in Baker Street, two doors down from you. Sulejmani. Albanian hit squad. Expertly-trained killer living less than twenty feet from your front door." He explained.

"It's a great location. Jubilee line's handy." John smirked.

"John..."

"What's it got to do with me?" He asked.

Mycroft handed him another file. "Dyachenko, Ludmila. Russian killer. She's taken the flat opposite."

"Okay...I'm sensing a pattern here." Stated John in a slightly nervous tone.

He handed John the rest of the files. "In fact, four top international assassins relocate to within spitting distance of two hundred and twenty-one B. Anything you care to share with me?"

"I'm moving?!" Replied John.

Mycroft looked at him unamused before narrowing his eyes. "It's not hard to guess the common denominator, is it?"

"You think this is Moriarty?" Asked John.

"He promised Sherlock he'd come back." He stated.

"If this was Moriarty, we'd be dead already." John explained.

"If not Moriarty, then who?"

"Why don't you talk to Sherlock if you're so concerned about him?" Suggested John.

Mycroft looked away and began to toyswith the glass on the table beside him. John rolled his eyes. "Oh God, don't tell me."

"Too much history between us, John. Old scores; resentments." Mycroft stated.

"Nicked all his Smurfs? Broke his Action Man?" Mocked John.

Mycroft glowered at him.

John attempts to hold back a laugh as he gathered up the files. "Finished." He stood up and turned to leave the room.

"We both know what's coming, John." Stated Mycroft.

John stopped and turned back, it was clear that he was struggling to control his anger.

"Moriarty is obsessed. He's sworn to destroy his only rival." Mycroft explained.

"So you want me to watch out for your brother because he won't accept your help." Stated John tightly.

"If it's not too much trouble." He answered before directing a smile at John. It quickly faded and his expression once again became more threatening. John held his gaze, before looking away. He nodded in a resigned way and turned to go to the door again. Opening it, he looked back at Mycroft once more, then left the room.

* * *

**~Adelaide's POV-**

Bored of waiting for John to return with the shopping, I had gone out myself armed with Sherlock's bank card. When I returned to 221B, I noticed a brown envelope sitting on the doorstep. Picking it up, the front of the letter was blank, while on the back, there was an old fashioned wax seal. Peeling open one corner of the envelope, I slid my finger across the remainder. Immediately, a shower of brown dust fell from the envelope to the pavement. I furrowed an eyebrow, and picked out one of the chunks from the envelope. Not being able to identify the substance, I placed the envelope into my pocket before entering the flat. Making my way upstairs, Lestraude was standing in the living room. "Oh, hello." I smiled at him, before dumping the bag of shopping on the kitchen table and walking over to Sherlock. "What's going on?"

"Kidnapping." Sherlock stated.

"Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the U.S. His seven year old son Max and nine year old daughter Claudette have been missing for a few days now." Lestraude filled me in.

Donovan handed Sherlock and I pictures of the two children.

"They're at St Aldate's." Lestraude stated. "It's a posh boarding place down in Surrey. The school broke up; all the other boarders went home – just a few kids remained, including those two. The ambassador's asked for you personally."

Sherlock grabbed his coat and began putting it on.

John entered the room with an expression that matched mine as I entered earlier.

"Where have you been?" I asked. "You took so long that I gave up and went myself."

He smirked. "Sorry, I got side tracked."

"We'll take a cab and follow you." Sherlock stated.

Lestraude nodded. "Isn't it great to be working with a celebrity!" He smilled sarcastically leaving the room.

* * *

Arriving at St Aldate's School, the building itself resembled that of the boarding school I had previously attended only much posher. Two police cars were already parked out front and a woman was standing in front of one of them with a shock blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Tears had smudged her makeup and a police officer was reassuring her. Blowing her nose in a fabric handkercheif, she appeared to genuinely be upset. I could read peoples emotions very well, it's one of the only skills that my brother's do not also posess.

"It's all right." Spoke the police officer comfortingly.

"Miss Mackenzie, House Mistress. Go easy." Lestraude whispered to us.

Sherlock walked over to the woman. "Miss Mackenzie, you're in charge of pupil welfare, yet you left this place wide open last night." He rose his voice angrily. "What are you: an idiot, a drunk or a criminal?" He grabbed the blanket around her shoulders and pulled it off her. The woman gasped in fear.

"Sherlock!" I scorned before ripping the blanket out of his grasp and re-wrapping it around her shoulders. "Ignore my brother, he can be a bit forward." I apoligised softly.

Sherlock just looked at me before walking off towards the school.

The woman looked at me tearfully. Her hands were shaking in shock and her expression was overcome with terror.

"It's okay." My tone was calm. "Can you tell me what happened?"

She nodded. "All of the doors and windows were properly bolted. No-one – not even me – went into their room last night. You have to believe me!"

"I do." I nodded with a smile. "Thank you." I walked off into the school.

John checked that the woman was alright before following me inside.

Sherlock was busy looking around.

"Six grand a term, you'd expect them to keep the kids safe for you. You said the other kids had all left on their holidays?" Queried John.

Walking into the children's room, Sherlock looked in one of the cupboards beside the bed before dropping to his knees and peering under the bed.

"They were the only two sleeping on this floor. Absolutely no sign of a break-in." Lestraude stated.

I picked up a lacrosse stick that was lying on the floor. There was something strange about it. Furrowing an eyebrow, I took a closer look. The scent. Sniffing it, a potent stench filled my nostrils causing me to cough. Sherlock, Lestraude and John all turned to me. "Sorry." I apoligised.

"The intruder must have been hidden inside some place." Lestraude moved the curtain slightly.

Sherlock walked over to a wooden trunk and opened the lid. Amongst the various toys and knick knacks, there was a brown envelope with a wax seal on the back which had been broken. Someone had opened the envelope already. Looking inside, there was a copy of "Grimm's Fairy Tales." He quickly flicked through the book, but judging by the way he simply disgarded it, he musn't have found anything of interest. "Show me where the brother slept."

Lestraude led us to another, smaller dormitory.

"The boy sleeps there every night, gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor." Sherlock pointed to the bed before turning to the door. "He'd recognise every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door."

I noticed that the door had a frosted glass pane. "Do you think he would have been able to see the intruder approaching?"

"Maybe..." Answered Sherlock. "So someone approaches the door who he doesn't recognise, an intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon." I walked out into the corridor and pulled the door so that it was almost closed before raising my hand and pointing my fingers as if they were a gun to depict whether the child would have been able to see the weapon (if he was armed) through the frosted glass. I walked back into the room.

"What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?" Sherlock.

"Emmm..." I thought. "Leave a message." I suggested before a perticular possession of the child caught my eye. "Sherlock..."

"Yes?" He answered.

"Look at the genre of books he reads." I pointed out.

Sherlock walked around the bed to me and looked at the beside table. "Spy books." He discreetely smiled at me. "This little boy; this particular little boy, who reads spy books. What would he do?"

"He'd leave a sign?" John suggested.

Sherlock started to snif. "What is that smell?" He took the lacrosse stick from my hand and sniffed it. Giving it back to me, he knelt down beside the bed and looked under it. Pulling something out from underneath, he stood up before handing a bottle to me.

"Linseed oil." I gasped.

"Get Anderson." Sherlock shouted.

* * *

Anderson's forensics squad darkened the room by placing shutters over the windows. He handed both Sherlock and I an ultraviolet light. Shining it on the wall that the boy's headboard was against revealed a hastily scrawled message wrote in linseed oil. 'HELP US!'

"Not much use. Doesn't lead us to the kidnapper." Anderson stated.

"Brilliant, Anderson." Spoke Sherlock.

Did my brother really just compliment Anderson?

"Really?" Replied Anderson with an equally shocked expression.

"Yes. Brilliant impression of an idiot." Sherlock grinned.

I smirked.

Using his light, he shone it on the wooden floorboards. "The floor." Several sets of varying sized footprints became visable. They lead towards the door. Sherlock and I began to follow them slowly.

"He made a trail for us!" John stated.

"The boy was made to walk ahead of them." Sherlock explained.

"He was on tiptoe." I deducted.

"Indicates anxiety; a gun held to his head." He nodded before noticing more footprints. "The girl was pulled beside him, dragged sideways. He had his left arm cradled about her neck."

A few yards along the corridor the glowing footsteps stopped.

"That's the end of it. We don't know where they went from here." Anderson stated. "Tells us nothing after all."

I stopped and turned to him. "You're right, Anderson – nothing." I paused for a moment. "Except his shoe size, his height, his gait, his walking pace."

Sherlock took down the blackour material from one of the windows causing the sunlight to flood back into the corridor. He then knelt down on the floor and picked away a small chunk of wood from the floorboard before placing it into a petri dish.

"Having fun?" John asked him.

"Starting to." Sherlock answered.

"Sherlock!" I scolded.

* * *

Sat in the back of a taxi, I could tell that my brother was deep in thought.

"How did he get past the CCTV? If all the doors were locked?" Asked John.

Sherlock didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on a point in the distance.

I rolled my eyes at him before turning to John. "He walked in when they weren't locked."

"But a stranger can't just walk into a school like that."

"Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment. Yesterday – end of term, parents milling around, chauffeurs, staff. What's one more stranger among that lot? He was waiting for them. All he had to do was find a place to hide." I stated.

* * *

Arriving at St Bartholomew's Hospital, we walked inside the bustling hospital. Sherlock walked over to the vending machine.

I furrowed an eyebrow. "You never eat on a case."

"They're not for me." He stated with a smile before throwing me a bag of Quavers. Inserting more money into the machine, another bag dropped down. Sherlock picked the bag up and stuffed it into his coat pocket. "Come on." He walked off down the corridor.

I followed along with John.

* * *

Molly walked along the corridor as she was pulling her coat on. As she opened the door, Sherlock and I walked through and smiled at her.

"Molly!" We both said in unison.

"Oh, hello. I'm just going out." She stated.

I put my hand on her shoulder and turned her back so that she was facing the way she had jusy came. "No you're not."

"I've got a lunch date." Molly informed.

"Cancel it. You're having lunch with us." Sherlock stated before producing the bag of Quavers from his pocket. I did the same.

"What?" Molly furrowed an eyebrow.

"We need your help." I smiled. "It's one of your old boyfriends – we're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty!"

"It's Moriarty?" John's eyes widened.

"Ofcourse it's Moriarty." Sherlock and I said in unison once again.

"Er, Jim actually wasn't even my boyfriend. We went out three times. I ended it." Molly stated.

Yes, but that doesn't mean he's not a physco that stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organised a prison break at Pentonville." I grinned.

"For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly." Sherlock smiled before continuing on through the fire door.

Molly stared at him in utter bewilderment.

* * *

As I sat upon the lab bench eating my bag of Quavers, Sherlock was busy looking through the microscope at the petri dish with the wood in it.

"The oil in the kidnapper's footprint – it'll lead us to Moriarty." He stated. Taking a small smaller shaving of the wood, he placed it into another petri dish already half filled with a chemical. As he dropped it in, the fluid begins to fizz. Using the pipette, he collected some of the chemical before dropping it onto a glass slide. "All the chemical traces on his shoe have been preserved. The sole of the shoe is like a passport. If we're lucky we can see everything that he's been up to. I need that analysis."

Squeezing some liquid into the glass dish, Molly applied Litmus paper to it. The paper turned blue.

"Alkaline." I stated.

"Thank you, Adelaide.

Sherlock began jotting down his findings onto a piece of paper.

1. Chalk

2. Asphalt

3. Brick Dust

4. Vegetation

5. ?

Throwing the crisp packet into the bin and washing my hands, I walked over to the computer screen. "Glycerol molecule."

"What are you?" Sherlock mummered to himself before beginning to look through the police photographs taken at the school. My eyes widened as I noticed something in the photograph of the trunk. It was a brown envelope. It matched the one I had found on the doorstep.

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?" He answered.

"This envelope that was in her trunk. There's another one." I stated.

"What?" Sherlock furrowed an eyebrow.

"On our doorstep. I found it today." I took it from my coat pocket and handed it to Sherlock. "It matches the seal exactly."

Sherlock reached into the envelope and took out some of the brown dust. "Breadcrumbs." He mumbled. "A little trace of breadcrumbs; hardback copy of fairy tales." His eyes widened. "Two children led into the forest by a wicked father follow a little trail of breadcrumbs."

"That's "Hansel and Gretel." What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?" Asked John.

"The sort that likes to boast; the sort that thinks it's all a game. He sat in our flat and he said these exact words to me...Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain." Sherlock put the envelope down and adjusted the microscope before looking through it once again. The fifth substance: it's part of the tale." He looked up again. "The witch's house."

"What?" I furrowed an eyebrow before it all began to make sense. "The glycerol molecule."

"PGPR!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"What's that?" Asked John.

I grinned. "It's used in making chocolate."

* * *

At Scotland Yard, Lestraude handed Sherlock a sheet of paper to Sherlock. "This fax arrived an hour ago."

'HURRY UP

THEY'RE

DYING!'

"What have you got for us?" Asked Lestraude.

"We need to find a place in the city where all five of these things intersect." Sherlock handed the list to Lestraude.

"Chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation ... What the hell is this? Chocolate?"

"I think we're looking for a disused sweet factory." I stated.

"We need to narrow that down. A sweet factory with asphalt?" Lestraude looked confused.

"No. No-no-no. Too general. Need something more specific. Chalk; chalky clay – that's a far thinner band of geology." Sherlock stated before turning to me. "Come on, here's a puzzle for you." He smiled.

I thought for a moment. "Well if it's chalk, then the bricks are from the nineteen fifties so it'll probably be a building site by now." I deducted.

"Yes and..." Sherlock encouraged. His phone vibrated. Opening the text mesage displayed a picture which he showed to me.

"Rhododendron ponticum." I stated before beginning to think of a location that matched all of the clues. It took me a few seconds before I had my answer. "Addlestone." I smiled.

"What?" Asked Lestraude.

"There's a mile of disused factories between the river and the park. It matches everything." I stated.

Sherlock kissed me on the head before hurring out of the office with Lestraude and John.

* * *

Rushing inside the dark disused factory, I turned on my torch before beginning to look around. John came with me. I crinkling noise could be heard underfoot. John furrowed an eyebrow before directing the light from his torch down onto the floor.

"Sweet wrappers." He stated.

"Sherlock, over here!" I shouted.

Sherlock rushed over and glanced at the sweet wrappers before walking on. He soon came across a candle on a plate. Kneeling down beside it, he touched the wick. "This was alight moments ago." He stated. "They're still here." He shouted to the officers. "Now, what's he been feeding you?" Sherlock picked up one of the wrappers and looked at it more closely. "Hansel and Gretel." Holding the wrapper closer to the beam of his torch, he sniffed the paper before touching the tip of his tongue to it and grimacing at the taste. Sherlock looked at the wrapper in startled realisation of what he has just tasted. "Mercury."

"What?" My eyes widened as Lestraude ran over.

"The papers: they're painted with mercury." Sherlock stated.

"Oh god!" John groaned.

"Lethal. The more of the stuff they ate..." He began.

"It was killing them." John finished.

"But it's not enough to kill them on its own. Taken in large enough quantities, eventually it would kill them." Sherlock explained. "He didn't need to be there for the execution. Murder by remote control. He could be a thousand miles away." He glanced around. "The hungrier they got, the more they ate...the faster they died."

"Over here!" Screamed Donovan.

I sprinted in the direction of her voice and gasped at what I saw. The ambassador's children were lying slumped on the floor. Their mouths painted brown from the amount of chocolate they had consumed.

"I've got you. Don't worry." Reassured Donavon.

* * *

Back at Scotland Yard, Sherlock was pacing outside the office while John and I were sitting in chairs by one of the desks. The door of the office was opened and Lestraude and Donavon walked out.

"Right, then. The professionals have finished. If the amateurs wanna go in and have their turn..." Donavon spoke sarcastically.

Lestraude walked over to Sherlock. "Now, remember, she's in shock and she's just seven years old, so anything you can do to..."

"...not be himself." I finished with a cheeky grin.

"Yeah." Lestraude nodded. "It would be helpful."

Sherlock looked at me before walking into the office. The little girl was sitting at the table looking down into her lap. A female liaison officer was sat beside her stroking her arm reassuringly.

"Claudette, I..." Began Sherlock softly.

As the girl lifted her head, she took one look at him before screaming in terror.

"No-no, I know it's been hard for you." I tried to calm her down.

She continued to scream and scrambled at the officer to to get away from Sherlock.

"Claudette, listen to me..." Sherlock attempted once again.

"Out. Get out!" Shouted Lestraude as he bruntily bundled Sherlock and I from the room as the little girl's screams continued.

* * *

After the girl's screaming episode, Sherlock, John and I were made to wait in another office. This time, I was standing at the window looking out into the night through the slats of the Venetian blinds.

"Makes no sense." Spoke John from behind me. I didn't turn to look.

"The kid's traumatised. Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper." Lestraude stated.

"So what's she said?" John asked.

"Hasn't uttered another syllable." He explained.

"And the boy?" Asked Sherlock.

"No, he's unconscious; still in intensive care."

In the building opposite, all the lights in the offices came on. On the second floor, spray paint had been applied to three of the office windows. I stared at the enormous letters that had been painted.

'I O U'

Seconds later, the lights on the floor went out again. I knew no one would have witnessed this due to the angle of the blinds so I just turned round.

"Well, don't let it get to you. I always feel like screaming when you walk into a room! In fact, so do most people." Lestraude joked before turning to Donovan and John. "Come on." He left the room with John. Donavon stayed behind.

"Brilliant work you did, finding those kids from just a footprint. It's really amazing." She leant back against the wall.

"Thank you." Spoke Sherlock.

"Unbelievable." She stated pointedly.

Sherlock hesitated momentarily before turning to me. "We better be going."

I nodded before walking out of the office with him.

Donovan watched us leave with a thoughtful expression.

* * *

Walking out of Scotland Yard, I walked to the curb and raised my hand to hail the approaching taxi. John walked over.

"You okay?" He asked Sherlock.

"Thinking." Sherlock answered.

The taxi pulled up at the kerb.

"I can't take all of you." Shouted the cabbie.

"Oh." I looked at Sherlock. "I'll get this one." I stated. "Look, there's one coming now, get that, I'll meet you back at the flat." I smiled reassuringly.

Sherlock looked at me in a brotherly fashion for a moment before sighing. "Fine." He and John walked off down the street and began hailing the taxi.

I climbed into the taxi and closed the door. It quickly pulled away. Lost in thought about why the little girl had reacted like that, I gazed out of the window. The tv screen on the back of the driver's seat switched on. The London Taxi Shopping was advertising jewellery. "Can you turn this off, please?" I asked the driver.

He didn't respond.

"Can you turn this off..." I asked again.

The image on the screen began to fritz as if another channel was breaking through. I furrowed an eyebrow as momentary glimpses of Moriarty grinning at the screen kept flashing on and off. Eventually, the advert disappeared and Moriarty was seen smiling cheerfully. Behind him was a pale blue wall with painted white fluffy clouds floating across it. "Hullo. Are you ready for the story? This is the story of Sir Boast-a-lot." Spoke Moriarty as if he was talking to children.

I stared at the screen with an intense expression.

"Sir Boast-a-lot was the bravest and cleverest knight at the Round Table, but soon the other knights began to grow tired of his stories about how brave he was and how many dragons he'd slain..." The pale blue sky behind him darkened and the white clouds became grey and threatening. "And soon they began to wonder..." Rain began to pour from the clouds behind him. "Are Sir Boast-a-lot's stories even true?" Moriarty shook his head. "Oh, no." He pouted. "So one of the knights went to King Arthur and said, I don't believe Sir Boast-a-lot's stories. He's just a big old liar who makes things up to make himself look good." He whispered dramatically. "And then even the King began to wonder..." Moriarty frowned, raised a finger to his mouth and gazed off to the side with a wondering look on his face. Lightning bolts began to shoot down from the clouds behind him. He shook his head repeatedly. "But that wasn't the end of Sir Boast-a-lot's problem. No." Moriarty looked down for a moment before raising his eyes to the camera. "That wasn't the final problem."

I bared my teeth at the screen as the camera pulled back to show Moriarty sitting with a storybook held in his hands. He looked up at the camera. "The End." He finished cheerfully. Behind him, a red velvet curtain dropped down. The shot changed to an extreme close-up of Moriarty grinning hugely and showing his teeth. The screen fritzed a few times before eventually returning to the jewellery advert.

"Stop the cab! Stop the cab!" I screamed.

The taxi pulled up at the curb. I rushed out before walking to the cabbie's window.

"What was that?" The cabbie, was wearing a cloth cap like the one the old man had worn in the first case I investigated with Sherlock. He turned his head to me. I gasped as I realised who it was.

"No charge." Spoke Moriarty.

He immediately accelerated away as I tried to grab hold of the door and pull the cab back. Forced to let go, I chased after the taxi but it soon sped away. I glared after it. Hearing the sound of a horn, I turned to see a car speeding towards me. Gasping in fear, I was suddenly bundled to the curb by a foreign man.

"Thank you." I looked up at him as I tried to get my breath back. Standing up slowly and dusting myself off, I held out my hand for the man to shake.

The man took my hand. As he did, three bullets fired each striking him in quick succession from somewhere behind me. I gasped as my breathing heightened in fear. The man slumped to the ground. I span around trying to find the source of the gunfire. Another cab came round the corner and pulled up a short distance away. Sherlock and John jumped out.

"Adelaide!" Sherlock screamed as he ran over and pulled me into to a hug. My body was shaking as I buried myself against him.

"The man..." I stated. "I only shook his hand." My tone was tearful.

"It's okay, I believe you." Sherlock reassured as he gently stroked my hair.

* * *

As the paramedics arrived, they checked that I was alright before wheeling the man's body away. My fingers twitched fretfully.

"That ... it's him. Sulejmani or something. Mycroft showed me his file. He's a big Albanian gangster lives two doors down from us." John explained.

"He died because I shook his hand." I stated softly.

"What d'you mean?" Sherlock furrowed an eyebrow.

"That man saved my life."

"So he saved your life, but couldn't touch you...Why?" He mumbled to himself before turning back to me. "We should get back to the flat." Sherlock smiled.

* * *

As we arrived back at 221B, a white envelope was sitting on the mat as we opened the door. Sherlock picked it up before looking at the writing on the front.

'_Sherlock & Adelaide Holmes_'

Furrowing an eyebrow, he carefully opened the envelope. Inside there was a piece of white letter paper and two tickets.

"What does it say?" I asked.

Unfolding the letter, it read:

'_Dear Mr Sherlock & Miss Adelaide Holmes, I formally request the pleasure of your company at my Masquerade Ball. I have enclosed the address on the reverse of this letter. I hope to see you there. _

**P.S.**_ I owe you a drop :)_'

"Looks like we need to get packing." Sherlock stated.

"You're not seriously going to go!" Exclaimed John.

"I'm very serious." He smiled before turning to me. "You're invited too, fancy a holiday?" Sherlock asked.

I nodded. "But you're going to have to buy me a new dress and a mask." I grinned.

* * *

_~Norway~_

"So, let's go through this one last time." I stated.

"I'm going to search down Moriarty and find out more about what him and his criminal web have recently been sponsoring, and you're going to try and stay out of trouble." Sherlock shot me an 'I'm being serious when I say that' look.

I moaned. "Am I really not allowed to help?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes because you'd probably get yourself murdered or kidnapped if you did."

I rolled my eyes. "Come on, the champagne's getting warm." I smirked.

"And you're not drinking either." He stated parently.

"Sherlock, I listen to you regarding a lot of things, but you smoke meaning your argument is invalid in this instance...Plus, they won't even be able to see my face to even suspect that I'm under age." I grinned to purposely annoy him before shivering. "Uhhh! Who has a ball in Norway?! It's freezing!"

"The wealthy." Sherlock took of his coat and draped it over my shoulders.

"Thank you." I smiled softly.

"Can't have you freezing to death now can we." He smiled back before beginning to walk off towards the mansion. "Come along, we have a masquerade ball to attend."

I nodded as I tied my dark green mask over my eyes. My dress colour co-ordinated with my mask. Falling to my knees, the silky fabric was smooth to touch and hung perfectly.

* * *

Reaching the doors of the mansion, I noticed a name sign on the door. It read:

'Din Død Er Venter Du'

Two guards stood on either side of the doors.

"Tickets?" The tallest man asked.

Sherlock nodded before handing them to him.

The guard checked them over before nodding and motioning for us to enter. "Enjoy the ball, Mr and Miss Holmes."

Entering inside, my eyes widened is amazement. The mansion was spectacularly grand. A large chandelier hung down from the ceiling and a collection of extensievely large portraits and tapestries covered most of the wall space. A footman took my coat from me and hung it onto a large white coat stand. "Thank you." I smiled. Sherlock held out his arm to me. I linked arms with him as he escorted me to the hall. Everyone was doing the same thing. Smiling, I looked up at him.

"Shall we?" He asked.

I nodded.

Sherlock took my hand in his before placing his other on my waist. He then took the lead as a woman dressed in a long red dress began to play Ballsirenen by Franz Lehár on the grand piano at the side of the hall.

As we waltzed, I glanced around at the characters of the ball. With this many guests, locating Moriarty and gaining information wasn't going to be easy.

"Adelaide would you mind if I left you for a moment, the guest of honour has just arrived." Sherlock asked.

"Not at all." I smiled before nodding and walking off.

* * *

**-Third Person POV- **_~Back At 221B~_

The doorbell rang. John exited the living room and made his way downstairs. Opening the door, Lestraude was standing outside.

"Oh hello." John greeted.

"I need to see Sherlock." Lestraude stated.

"He's not here." John answered.

Lestraude furrowed an eyebrow. "What do you mean he's not here?" He asked.

"He's in Norway with Adelaide...Why?"

"You are kidding!" Lestraude sighed in an annoyed tone. "If you really want to know, Sherlock's under arrest on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."

John's eyes widened.

Lestraude sighed angrily before leaving the house.

A white letter was tucked up beside the wall from where it must have been pushed aside by the door being opened. John picked it up and carefully opened it. Inside, there was a plan of a newspaper article. The headline read 'Sherlock's a Fake!' with the strapline 'He Invented All The Crimes.' Kitty's name was down as the author. As he began to read through the article, a certain aspect of it just didn't add up. Grabbing his coat from the hook, he folded the newspaper into his pocket before rushing out of the house.

* * *

**-Adelaide's POV-**

As I casually walked down one of the mansion's corridors, I mentally took note of the snippets of conversations I could hear as I passed various ball guests. The topics they were discussing were in no way interesting or of any use. Plus, the majority of conversations seemed to center around the same thing, money. Someone grabbed hold of my wrist from behind. I turned quickly to see a blonde girl around my age. She looked panicked and scared.

"I have a message for you." She stated.

I furrowed an eyebrow. "What?"

The girl handed me a white envelope with my name wrote in a curly font on the front. Quickly opening it, I took out the enclosed letter.

'IOU'

My eyes widened. "Who gave you this?"

"I can't tell you." She lowered her head.

I took hold of her arm. "Who gave you this?" I shouted.

"Moriarty..."

A gun fired and Melody gasped.

I clamped my hand over my mouth in fear as I quickly backed away from her dead body. Whimpering quietly, I looked at her for a few seconds before running off down the corridor. Coming to the door of the bathroom, I quickly rushed inside. Standing in front of the sink, I untied my mask and lay it down on the white marble counter. Turning on the tap, I washed away the blood from my hands before splashing water onto my face. Looking up in the mirror, I could see that my body was shaking. Drying my face with the towel, I knew I had to get back to the ball. Taking a series of deep breaths, I retied my mask over my face before leaving the bathroom.

My phone began to vibrate in my pocket.

'Sherlock calling'

I pressed accept. "Sherlock, where are you? I haven't seen you since we arrived." I asked.

"Sherlock can't speak right now!" The voice stated.

My eyes widened. "Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock?"

"Please Miss Holmes, have patience. Your friend has plently of that, but then again, he is a little tied up right now." He chuckled. "We should meet up."

"And what if I decline?" I asked.

"Then I will personally decorate the wall with the insides of Sherlock's head! Damien Hirst eat your heart out." The voice laughed. "If you value his life, then come out onto the west wing balcony in five minutes...alone! I'll be waiting..." The line went dead.

Ending the call, I grabbed Sherlock's coat from the coat stand and put it on. Turning up the collar, I made my way through the mansion towards the west wing balcony.

* * *

**-Third Person POV-** _~The Diogenes Club~_

Mycroft walked across one of the common rooms where an old man was fast asleep in one of the armchairs. Entering into a smaller private room, he reached for the door handle to close it. Noticing a figure, he stopped before slowly walking into the room. John was sitting in one of the armchairs. In his hands, was Kitty's newspaper article.

"She has really done her homework, Miss Riley – things that only someone close to Sherlock could know."

Mycroft closed the door. "Ah."

"Have you seen your brother's address book lately? Three names: yours, mine and Adelaide's and Moriarty certainly didn't get this stuff from me or Adelaide."

Mycroft walked across the room to face him. "John..."

"So how does it work, then, your relationship? D'you go out for a coffee now and then, eh, you and Jim?" Asked John.

Mycoft sat down in the chair opposite and opened his mouth to speak.

"Your own siblings, and you blabbed about their entire lives to this maniac." John intterupted him in a tone of controlled anger.

"I never inten...I never dreamt..." He attempted once again.

"So this...th-th-this..." John flicked through the paper. "...is what you were trying to tell me, isn't it: watch his back, 'cause I've made a mistake." He slapped the paper down on the table and sat back in the chair before clearing his throat in an attempt to stay calm. "How did you meet him?"

Mycroft drew in a large breath. "People like him: we know about them; we watch them. But James Moriarty ... the most dangerous criminal mind the world has ever seen, and in his pocket the ultimate weapon: a keycode. A few lines of computer code that could unlock any door."

"And you abducted him to try and find the keycode?" John queried.

"Interrogated him for weeks." Mycroft answered.

"And?"

"He wouldn't play along." Mycroft stated. "He just sat there, staring into the darkness. The only thing that made him open up..." He stopped. "I could get him to talk...just a little, but..." He trailed off.

"...in return you had to offer him Sherlock and Adeliade's life stories. So one big lie – Sherlock's a fraud – but people will swallow it because the rest of it's true." John finished bitterly. "Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, right? And you have given him the perfect ammunition."

Mycroft lowered his eyes.

John pulled in a sharp breath before getting to his feet and turning towards the door.

"John..." He called softly.

John turns backed to him.

Mycroft looked up. "I'm sorry."

"Oh, please..." Responded John tightly before shaking his head in disbelief and turning away once again making his way to the door.

"Tell them, would you?"

John opened the door and walked away, leaving the door open behind him.

* * *

**-Adelaide's POV-** _~Norway~_

I slowly opened the door before stepping out onto the stone balcony. The temperature was bitterly cold and the lighting on the side of the building was faint.

"Miss Holmes, what a pleasure to meet you at last."

I turned to see Moriarty dressed in his typical attire. A menacing smiled lit up his face.

"Where's Sherlock?" I asked.

"He's not here love." Moriarty stated.

"What have you done with him?! I swear if you've hurt him!"

"Oh, you are a feisty one, I like smart girls with personality."

"Why are you doing this?" I asked with a stern expression.

"You see Adelaide, your brother isn't the only genius on the planet that gets bored from time to time." He stated. "The difference is though, all Sherlock needs to occupy himself, is a good mystery to solve. For me, I have to spend millions of pounds to eliminate my cravings." Moriarty began walking round me. "So...what to do with you? I have absolutely no use for you, and I'm pretty sure the virgin would have something to say if I just snatched you." He stated with a smirk. "The thing is though Adelaide, I already have you right where I want you." Moriarty grinned.

I furrowed an eyebrow.

"You've swum right into my little trap."

Someone from behind grabbed hold of my arms before holding me against the wall. Another man then produced a syringe from his pocket and removed the clear plastic cap.

"What is that?" My eyes widened.

"The perfect deal breaker." Moriarty smiled.

"What will that do to me?" I panicked as I tried to break free of his grasp.

"My you ask alot of questions..."

"No...No!" I screamed.

The man stabbed the needle into my arm before injecting the contents of the syringe into my arm. My eyes flickered as a weird sensation consumed me. My body progresively began to weaken until my knees buckled beneath me. I dropped to the stone floor landing on my hands and knees.

"Go back to the ball." Moriarty instructed the two men before walking in front of me and looking down. "I think it's time to call Sherly, don't you." He grinned evily. He dialled the number into his phone before pressing call. The phone was on loud speaker so I could hear it connecting. I desperately hoped that he wouldn't pick up.

"Hello?" Sherlock answered. "Who is this?" He asked.

I sighed. "No..." I mumbled silently.

"Jim Moriarty...I think it's time you and I have a little chat." Looking at me, he grinned once again. "Say hello Adelaide." Holding out the phone, I was too weak to even attempt to hold it.

"Sherlock..." I struggled.

"Adelaide!" His tone changed to reflect his emotions.

Moriarty pulled the phone away. "West wing balcony, two minutes...I'm counting." He pressed end call.

"You are one seriously messed up man!" I stated.

"Thank you." He smiled.

"It wasn't a compliment."

"And that's what makes it so." He looked at his watch. "My your brother is a terrible time keeper, I thought he would've been here by now. Unless he isn't coming. Maybe he doesn't care about you. That wouldn't surprise me remotely, because Sherlock doesn't have a heart. And even if he did, do you really think there would be a spot in it for a failure like you." He looked at me with raging eyes. "You are a pathetic piece of trash that deserves to be thrown back onto the streets where you belong. I don't know why you came to Baker Street to find your brother, because he doesn't love you. Neither him or Mycroft do. Well, they say they do, but Sherlock did say this the other day." Taking a voice recorder from his pocket, he pressed play.

"What about Adelaide? Huh? What about her? Do you honestly not love her? I have always had you down as a coward Sherlock, but never a deserter, especially when it comes to someone as precious as your little sister Adelaide."

"If you did your research, then you would already know the answer to your question and this talk wouldn't have been a waste of time. Adelaide means nothing to me, she never has and she never will. She was always the dissapointment of the family."

A single tear ran down my cheek.

He pressed stop. "It's always hard to hear the truth."

Sherlock came bursting through the door.

"Here he is!" Moriarty grinned before walking over. "The man of the moment."

"What have you done to her?" Sherlock came rushing over and knelt down beside me. "Adelaide..." He said softly.

"I don't know what it was." I answered. "They caught me off-guard."

He stroked his finger down my cheek. "Everything's going to be alright." He smiled before standing up and walking over to Moriarty.

"Was there a reason behind why you kidnapped my sister?" Sherlock asked.

"I needed a way to lure you out, and what better way then a family hostage threat." He grinned. "Anyway, there are matters which we need to discuss."

"And they are?"

"You." Moriarty answered. "You see, I get bored and you're the only person fun enough to play my little game with me."

"What game?" Sherlock furrowed an eyebrow.

"The game! Have you not been paying attention to my clues?" He began to tut. "Shame on you Sherlock, you're losing your touch."

"Surely there are others who are addequite enough to join in with your form of recreation." Sherlock stated.

"Yes, but you are much cleverer than most of the stupid Neanderthal's on this planet." Moriarty stated. "The game can be much more elaborate when you are the player."

"I've been speaking with some of your associates tonight. I must say, they have been awfully insightful." Sherlock smiled.

Moriarty stepped closer to him. "Take this as a friendly warning, fuck off!"

Sherlock scoffed.

"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?" He stated.

"Oh let me guess, I get killed?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Kill you? No, don't be obvious." Moriarty smirked. "I will burn you. I will burn...the heart out of you." He turned to me. "As for your sister, I might aswell kill her, she's as pointless as that dr you've aqquainted yourself with."

I gasped.

"Don't you lay a finger on her!" Sherlock shouted sternly.

"Ohh, I've hit a nerve!" He laughed.

Sherlock growled in anger before swinging a punch at Moriarty's face. What he didn't anticepate was Moriarty being able to respond so quickly and block it. The two grabbed hold of each other as they tustled across the balcony both as equally matched as each other. My breathing was heavy in fear. Sherlock's eyes widened as he caught sight of something. I gasped too.

Moriarty was now in possession of a gun that he must have retrieved from his suit pocket. And it was aimed at me.

Sherlock glanced at me before discretely looking around at the balcony.

"Should I pull the trigger Sherlock?" Moriarty laughed.

Sherlock turned back to me once again. "I'm so sorry." He spoke softly before grabbing hold of Moriarty around the waist and throwing himself over the metal railings of the balcony taking Moriarty with him.

"No..." My words came out so quietly that I could scarcily hear them. I gasped. "Sherlock!" I screamed piercingly. I gasped as tears began to stream down my cheeks. "Sherlock." My voice softened. I was alone, and my brother was dead.

Hearing my screams, one of the guards from the ball rushed out onto the balcony and over to me. "Er du greit savner?"

I could identify that the guard was speaking Norweigan, but I couldn't understand what he was actually saying. Luckily, I do know one Norweigan phrase. "Snakker du engelsk?"

He shook his head. "Jeg ringer politiet." Running off inside, I was clueless as to what he had said.

* * *

Sat in a police station, I stared blankly off into the distance as the events of my brother's death replayed again and again in my head. Still wearing Sherlock's coat, my arms were wrapped around myself as I couldn't bear to take it off. His coat was all I had left of him, wearing it made me feel like he was still there, even though his body lies in the icy waters at the foot of the mountains. My eyes were dark red from crying and my skin was bitterly cold. The officers were frantically rushing around the station, they hadn't told me anything since they brought me here earlier. I felt so scared, I was stuck here all alone with no way of getting back to England. What's worse, none of the police officers speak English. The phone on the wall began to ring. I sniffled before wiping away tears with the back of my hand. One of the officers walked over and handed me the phone. "Hello?" I answered.

"Adelaide." Said a soft voice. It was Lestraude. "I'm going to fly out to get you alright." He explained caringly.

"Thank you." I spoke weakly.

"I'll be with you soon." He hung up.

* * *

When Lestraude arrived, I got up from the seat and ran over. He embraced me in a hug. "I am so sorry." He apologised.

"I can't believe he's gone." I spoke softly.

"Ever can I. He was a great man."

"John..." I remembered. "He needs to know." I panicked.

"Adelaide, it's alright, I'll ring him and explain what has happened, you don't need to worry." Lestraude stated in a calm, caring tone.

"Thank you." I smiled slightly.

"It's the least I can do Adelaide."

* * *

I didn't speak much on the flight back to the UK. Instead I simply gazed out of the window in an attempt to distract my thoughts from the images of Sherlock's death. When the plane touched down and we made our way through the airport, I noticed that John was waiting for me.

"Adelaide." John spoke in a soft, caring tone as he ran to me. He wrapped his around me.

By now, tears were once again streaming down my face in greif and pain. Sherlock was dead, and it was my fault. "Sherlock..." I began. "Sherlock's gone!"

John stroked my hair gently as he exchanged glances with Lestraude. I could vaguely see him shake his head. I presumed John asked if they'd found Sherlock's body.

"It's my fault...It's all my fault John." I buried my head against his shoulder.

"Hey..." He spoke softly. "Everything's going to be alright."

"There's a car waiting outside, I have to take you to the station just to get your statement." Lestraude stated.

I nodded. "I understand."

John put his arm around my shoulders for support as we made our way towards the airport's exit. What I didn't anticipate, was the sea of photographers and journalists waiting outside the doors. Upon spotting me, they all began to pounce.

"According to Kitty, Sherlock hired a children's actor name Richard Brook to play Moriarty. Did you know about this?"

"Did Sherlock invent him purely for his own purposes?"

"Is that why Sherlock ran off to Denmark? Because he payed him to take the rap and rigged the jury?"

"Did your brother invent his own nemisis?"

"Kitty Riley has released an article all about your brother under the headline 'Sherlock's a fake!'. Apprently he invented all the crimes just so he could solve them and take all the glory! Did you know about this?"

"Is that why Sherlock commited suicide last night?"

"Give the girl some room!" Lestraude shouted.

I was blinded by the endless flashes of their cameras. Grabbing hold of my hand, John guided me through the crowd to the waiting car. Opening the door, he held it while I quickly clambered in. John got in after me before slamming the door shut. Lestraude got in the front passenger seat before turning to us.

"Are you alright?" He asked.

I nodded even though their words had hit me hard.

* * *

_~Later That Day~_

Sat in the armchair, I had a gingham blanket over me as I was unsuccessfully attempting to stop crying. John was sat opposite on the metal framed leather chair reading the newspaper. The front page had a large picture of Sherlock printed upon it with the headline 'Suicide Of Fake Genius' written in large bold letters. Below that, the strapline states 'Super-Sleuth Is Dead!'. 'Fraudulent detective takes his own life.' I was too angry to read on.

John folded up the newspaper and dropped it down onto the floor. Something seemed wrong.

"What's wrong?" I asked softly.

"Have you read this?" He asked.

I nodded.

"How can he do that? How can he completely change his indentity to make Sherlock the criminal?"

"He's been sowing doubt into people's minds for months now. To complete his game, Sherlock had to die. Everyone had to believe that he died in disgrace, and what better way to do that, then sell a story where he's found out to be a fake. He's got mine and Sherlock's entire life story. That's what you do when you sell a big lie; you wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable. The press swallowed it up instantly, and now the entire world believes that Sherlock was a decieving, fake genius!" I stated.

"How would he know that the police would fall for it?" Asked John.

"He didn't, that's why he left that message telling everyone where to come."

John furrowed an eyebrow.

"The Tower of London, remember? 'Get Sherlock.'. He wrote it on the glass before he smashed it." I explained. "It was a subtle way of smearing his name in it."

"What are we going to do?"

"What do you mean?" I furrowed an eyebrow.

John turned away before angrily turning back. "I don't want the world believing that he's..."

"That he's what?" I asked.

"A fraud." He answered.

I rolled my eyes and sat back in the chair. "You're worried they're right."

"What?"

"You're worried they're right about Sherlock." I stated.

"No." John mumbled.

"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well."

He turned away once again. "No I'm not."

I leaned forward. "Moriarty is smart. He planted that doubt in your head; that little nagging sensation. You're gonna have to be strong to resist. You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home in your mind."

"I never said I had any doubts." John stated.

"Moriarty is playing with your mind too." Furious, my tone became louder. "Can't you see what's going on?" I screamed.

"No, I know Sherlock's not a fake." John stated.

"A hundred percent?" I questioned.

He nodded. "Sherlock wouldn't do that to you."

I smiled softly. "I'm sorry John." I apologised for my anger.

"Don't be, you were just sticking up for your brother. John smiled.

* * *

As the day of the funeral dawned, I dressed and walked into the living room where John and Mrs Hudson were waiting. They smiled softly at me. My expression didn't change as I dreaded what lay ahead. My stomach churned in guilt and greif. A horn could be heard from outside. John walked to the window.

"The car's here." He stated before turning to me. "Ready?" He asked softly.

I took a deep breath before nodding.

"I bought this for you this morning." Mrs Hudson handed me a red rose.

"Thank you." I smiled.

She looked at me before pulling me into a hug. "I'm so sorry." She condoled.

"You were close to him too, there's no need to apologise." I stated softly.

Mrs Hudson smiled. "You're a kind girl Adelaide."

I smiled.

* * *

'Sherlock Holmes'

The letters were engraved in gold on the black marble headstone. My red rose was placed at the base. John hadn't uttered a word since we left the house. He stood next to me with a saddened expression. Mrs Hudson sympathetically took my arm.

"We should be getting back." She stated.

I nodded.

"John?" Mrs Hudson asked.

He shook his head. "I'll meet you back at the flat."

"Okay." We began walking through the graveyard towards the gates.

* * *

**-John's POV-**

"Umm." I pulled myself together. "You told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm...There were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, and the most human ... human being that I've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, so there." I whimpered slightly. Stepping towards the headstone, I traced the top of it with my fingertips. "I was so alone, and I owe you so much." I took a tearful breath. "No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for Adelaide's sake. Don't ...be...dead. Would you? For her, just stop it. Stop this." Lowering my head, I covered my eyes with my hand and wept. Wiping away tears, I sniffed. "I'll take care of Adelaide for you, no one's going to hurt her, I promise." I stated softly. Raising my hand in salute to him, I turned on one heel before walking away.

* * *

**-Adelaide's POV- **_~Later That Day~_

John walked into the living room and handed me a cup of tea.

I smiled and took a sip.

"Sherlock told me about his conversation with Moriarty, and what he answered to his questions."

"He said that I meant nothing to him." I stated.

"Do you really think he would've meant that?" John leant forward. "Your brother was a great man, and a loyal one at that. You meant everything to him. There wasn't another person on this Earth that he loved and cared for as much as you. When he told Moriarty those things, he said them to try and protect you."

"If I hadn't of been stupid enough to fall into Moriarty's trap, then Sherlock would be alive right now, not remembered only by a chunk of shiny marble." I looked at John with tearful eyes. "We couldn't even bury him!" I wiped away tears with the back of my hand. "I miss him John, I miss my brother more than anything in the world."

"Hey..." John spoke softly as he took hold of my hands. "We're going to get through this." He smiled reassuringly. "Listen to me Adelaide." He tried to stop me crying. "None of this was your fault...Okay?...It wasn't your fault."

I nodded.

* * *

**-Third Person POV-**

A hooded figure standing in the shadows looked up at the top window of flat 221B. Noticing Adelaide and John, he smiled before quickly rushing off without being seen by a sole.


	4. The Return Of The Coatless Man

It was the spring of 2013, and the public interest currently lay on the mysterious case of Lord Peter Adair. He was murdered in his London flat not ten days ago, but his killer is yet to be identified, and the police are yet to gather together any links or evidence involving the conundrum. The media, as per usual, had their own set of theories about who committed the crime, and the public even had their own ideas. Even a year on after my brother's death, people were still graffiting 'I Believe In Sherlock Holmes' on any empty wall, building, or banner across the city. This made me smile. Going back to the circulating theories, my favourites were those of the Sherlock Holmes believers groups that are still active. They believe that it was the work of James Moriarty.

Despite the fact that I had distanced myself from my previous profession as a consulting detective, I would always allow my ears to prick up at the sound of a mysterious case, and I couldn't hide the fact that this one did interest me greatly. Walking down Baker Street, I took my key from my pocket and unlocked the black door of number 221B before entering inside and walking up the 17 steps to the first floor, where I was lodging. John had moved out, he was living with Sarah now, and I was sure that an engagement was in the pipeline. Traces of my brother still existed in the flat. The bullet holes in the wall, the smiley face hastily sprayed in bright yellow paint, the skull in which he used to talk to still sat on the mantelpiece along with his jack knife which was still pertruding from the splintered dark wood.

Over the year, I have tried my best to stay under the radar of the public to the best of my abilities as to some, I was as much to blame for the _**crimes **_as my brother apparently was. They saw me as an associate. After Sherlock's death, there was a public outcry for an investigation into the statements released in Kitty's article. Luckily, Lestraude and Mycroft both stepped in and the case simply died out. I hadn't seen my oldest brother since before Sherlock's death. John had told me what he had done. Inside, I felt angry. I was angry for how he had blabbed about us both to the man that wanted Sherlock dead so badly, but after a few weeks, I began to realise that it wasn't his fault. He didn't know what Moriarty had planned for Sherlock, neither of us had. I couldn't blame him for something that he had no control over.

As you've probably already guessed, Sherlock was the one who first got me interested in crime. He taught me every skill I know, and it was in situations like this when mysterious cases arose that I employed his finely taught methods into finding the solution to the crimes. Despite the fact that I was always supply the police with the information regarding the various murders and crimes that had taken place over the past few months, I would never tell them it was me, just pay one of the homeless network to walk into Scotland Yard and explain what actually happened. None of the cases I had solved, appealed to me as much as the murder of Peter Adair.

Sitting down at the desk, I opened up the laptop and began searching the Lord's murder. The public has already learned the unusual and inexplicable circumstances of the crime when the police spoke out appealing for any witnesses at the beginning of the investigation, but a good deal was suppressed upon that occasion, since the case for the prosecution was so overwhelmingly strong that it was not necessary to bring forward all the facts. Scrawling through endless news reports, I acquainted myself with the facts and separated from the fiction. I was then soon able to piece together the missing links which made up the whole of the remarkable chain. It is believed that Adair was murdered sometime before midnight on the 30th March. In the police report, it states that Peter's last sighting was coming out of a unlit house in West London at 2:45am on the 23rd March before travelling by taxi back to his apartment. The statements released by his family stated that was fond of card games, and would often take part in games with high profile participants. In the seven day gap between leaving the building and his murder, Peter was apparently distant and unwilling to talk to anyone. Looking at the CCTV footage released, he had also visited several banks multiple times throughout the week as well as using external card machines to check his bank balance. I was able to deduce from this that Peter must have got way above his head in debt after losing a game of poker where the stakes were just too high. Unwilling to fold and hypnotised by the amount of money on the table, Adair played and ultimately lost causing him to lose millions. The game participants he lost to, must have given him a week to gather the money, thus explaining why he made so many loan attempts and checked his balance so often throughout the seven days. This also explains his abnormal behavior. When the collection date came due, Adair didn't have the money therefore they must have killed him as punishment.

That wasn't that hard to piece together.

Some pieces of information still didn't make sense though. The police report stated that it was his girlfriend that found his body. Her account explained that she attempted to enter the study where he had entered earlier to find the door locked from the inside. Despite how many times she called for him and knocked, he did not answer. Panicked, Adair's girlfriend called her brother, and when he arrived, he broke down the door. The Lord was found lying near the table with his head horribly mutilated by a Plus-P bullet, but a Walther PPQ gun wasn't found in the room. On the table, the police found two £10 notes £17 made up of pound coins, ten pences and shrapnel arranged in little piles of varying amounts.

I was puzzled. Why would the Lord have locked himself inside the room? The only reason I could think of was fear of the men coming to collect their money, but the Lord may not have known their plans to kill him if he did not pay up. I also took into account the possibility that the murderer may have done this before escaping through the window of the study. After visiting the apartment earlier in the week, I had noticed that the drop from the study window was at least twenty feet, however, there was a flower bed in bloom below the window and none of the crocuses showed any sign of having been disturbed, nor were there any marks or footsteps upon the narrow strip of grass which separated the house from the road. Therefore, it seemed most likely that the Lord had locked the door himself. But how was he murdered? No one could have climbed up to the window without leaving traces. Maybe the murderer could have fired a shot through the window. The marksmen would have needed to have an incredible shot. The surroundings of the Lord's apartment in Park Lane would not make it easy for the marksmen. With a heavily used cab stop not 200 metres down the street, someone would have heard the shot. And yet, no one did. The Lord's bullet wound must have caused instantaneous death judging from the police shots that I had hacked from their computer systems. His murder was a mystery to me while being furthermore complicated by entire absence of motive, since none of the Lord's possessions or his money had been taken.

Hearing the door open downstairs, I quickly closed the web pages I had been reading before shutting the screen of my laptop and getting up from my seat. Walking over to the couch, I sat down, listening to the sound of each step creaking. As the door was slowly swung open, I expected it to be John so only glanced across. Turning back to the door however, Sherlock was stood by it with a smile on his face. Rising to my feet, I stared at him in utter bewilderment for a few seconds as my brain tried to think of a reasonable explanation as to how he could've possibly survived the fall.

"Sherlock?"

It was then that I found myself being consumed by the darkness.

I felt as if I was falling into a never ending black hole until the spots in my vision began to fill with light and I was finally able to open my eyes once again. I found myself lying on the floor, where you would expect to be after fainting, with Sherlock's arms wrapped around me as he knelt beside me with a worried expression on his face.

"Adelaide?" Hearing his voice say my name, reminded me of just how much I had missed my brother over the past year.

"Sherlock?" Still amazed that my previously dead brother was now standing in the living room of the flat, my brain was unable to think of anything intelligent to say at this moment.

"Are you okay?" He asked, helping me to my feet.

I nodded and resumed my seat on the couch. "How- How are you alive? We thought you were dead. I saw you fall." I spoke as words finally came to me.

Sherlock sat down on his black leather seat with the metal framing just as in the days when we would solve crimes together, before everything went wrong. He was wearing his usual attire despite the length of his absence. Dressed in a dark purple shirt with black trousers and shoes, the only thing missing was his signature blue scarf and his coat which I was still in possession of. Sherlock seemed much thinner than he did the night of the ball and the colour of his skin was worryingly pale suggesting that the last year had not been an easy one for him either. "I knew for certain that Moriarty had planned for me to die that night, I just hadn't anticipated you getting caught up in his plans in the way you were. When he aimed the gun at you, I threw away all of my previous plans and instead resorted to my reserve which I only intended to deploy in case a desperate situation arose. I knew I had to take him with me. That's when I grabbed him and threw us over the metal railings. We fell for a few seconds before I was able to grab hold of a petruding rock edge. I then watched him fall down and down until he struck a rock and splashed into the water." Sherlock explained. "I read your police report, and I must say Adelaide, your description of the rock face did not match correctly. You stated that the cliff face was sheer, when in fact there were a few small footholds and a thin ledge. The cliff face was indeed to sheer and high to climb, so instead, I had to make my way along the ledge to a path. The fall roared beneath me. A mistake would have been fatal. More than once, tufts of grass came out in my hand or my foot slipped in the wet notches of the rock, I thought that I was gone. But I struggled upward, and at last I reached a ledge several feet deep and covered with soft green moss, where I could lie unseen, in the most perfect comfort. There I was stretched, when you, my dear Adelaide looked for me, and then the police came to investigate the circumstances of my death."

"You were there, the entire time?" I asked.

Sherlock nodded. "When the police finally left, they took you to the police station leaving me alone. It was then that a huge rock, falling from above, brushed past me striking the path and bounded over into the chasm. At first, I thought that it was just a piece of the rock face naturally falling, but I was wrong. Looking up, I could just make out a figure in the darkness of the night. As he was about to drop another stone, I scrambled down on to the path. What I didn't anticipate was how difficult this simple maneuver was. Not having time to think it through, I quickly ducked another stone as I hung by my hands from the edge of the ledge. Halfway down I slipped, but luckily, I landed with nothing more than a few bleeding wounds on the path. Walking off into the night, I ditched my torn tie and my tattered suit jacket as I found myself in Oslo with the certainty that no one in the world knew of my miraculous survival."

"All this time?" My tone became higher and more angered. "You were alive all this time and you never thought to return to the flat? To me,to John, to Mycroft? Sherlock we...We thought you were dead. We held a funeral. We grieved for you, Sherlock."

He just looked at me with a expression of guilt. Then something became apparent in his eyes.

I began to slowly shake my head. "No..." I scoffed.

"I'm sorry, but everyone had to think I was dead. I couldn't pull that all of by myself."

I felt sick. Both my brothers had lied to me. I had been kept in the dark and left to suffer oblivious to the fact that one of my brothers was swanning around in Oslo solving crimes while another was sat in his position in the British government covering up his younger brother's death without delivering to me the details that would have made the last year of my life more bearable.

"I wanted to tell you, I did. I wanted to call you or text you, but I knew that you would not be able to keep my secret without telling John. I did visit London after I heard news of my funeral in the news. I stood outside the flat and looked up at the window to see you and John before I dissapeared for the rest of the time between that date and today. I had to confide in Mycroft for the funds and means to dissapear in the manner that I did. He supplied me with enough money to travel to France while he kept my name out of any inquiries that arose back here in London." He explained.

I shook my head once again before rising from my seat on the couch. "I'm gonna' kill him!" I was angry, I was beyond angry, I was furious. What's more, I felt manipulated. Mycroft had manipulated me into believing that Sherlock was well and truly dead when in fact he was travelling around Europe. I walked into the kitchen and took a rocks glass from the bench before pouring some of the contents of the bottle of whiskey into it and downing it quickly.

"You shouldn't be drinking." Sherlock stated as he too walked into the kitchen.

"Why?" I asked.

"You're-" He began before stopping himself upon realisation.

I shook my head. "It's been a year, Sherlock. I'm eighteen. You missed that birthday, not that I really had anything to celebrate. All I had was your name on a marble headstone and a butt load of grief." I put the glass down on the counter. "The whole year?!" I asked. "Seriously." I shook my head as I scoffed. "I mean you couldn't have just called once. Or texted. Or you know, came to see me so that I knew you weren't dead. So I didn't hate myself."

Sherlock furrowed an eyebrow.

"I thought..." I began, but my voice trailed off. "I thought that you were dead because of me. Because I couldn't even investigate something without being captured. I was knelt on that balcony, watching you fight with Moriarty...and I couldn't do a thing to help you. And then..." A tear trickled down my cheek as my voice trailed off once again. "And then you flipped over the railings, and I had to just watch as you fell. Everything slowed down. And then it was over. You were gone and I was alone! I was alone, and you were dead! And I thought that it was because of me! That I'd let you down!" My tone started off quiet, but soon rose to a tearful shout.

Sherlock sighed. "Adelaide, I am sorry."

"You keep using that word, Sherlock, but you know for a fact that you still completely believe in your excuses of not returning to London to tell your own family and your closest friends that you're alive. You may have a million reasons for not coming back, but not one of them can justify abandoning us." I stepped closer to him. "Once again, this is all about you. What Sherlock wants. Never thinking about the consequences or how others will be affected." I turned and walked over to the cupboard before taking out his coat. "You gave me this when we first arrived at the ball. I was wearing it when you died. I sat wearing it in the police station completely alone. None of the policeman spoke any English. Lestraude had to fly out to get me. When I got back to the UK, John met me at the airport. I was the one who had to answer to the press. You died a criminal in the eyes of the public, Sherlock. I was blamed too. They all thought I was connected to the crimes that Moriarty had created. I then had to bury you, or at least watch as they buried a coffin that didn't even enclose a body, because there wasn't one. According to the reports, your body was never found. I couldn't grieve because there was nothing left to grieve for. So, Sherlock, I know it may be hard for you to understand why I'm upset, but I can't even look at you right now."

"Adelaide, please..." Sherlock began. "I know what I did was thoughtless..."

"You faked your own death!" I exclaimed.

"I know, but I had my reasons."

Scoffing, I shook my head. "You know what, screw you, Sherlock." I shoved the coat into his grasp before storming off out of the door, down the stairs and out of the flat.


End file.
